


Some Things We Don’t Talk About

by ninetyfive



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Creamcakes, Explicit Consent, From Sex to Love, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mark ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-03-05 16:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 138,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninetyfive/pseuds/ninetyfive
Summary: When Take That reunite to work on their first five-piece album since the nineties, things couldn’t be better. The music is good, the inspiration keeps coming, and – most important of all – everyone is happy. So when Robbie suddenly decides to leave the band again after a successful public appearance with the rest of the boys, no-one knows the reason why — not even Mark.But Gary does. He understands perfectly, for he can still see the bruises Rob’s mouth left on him the previous night. He can still feel the love they made.This is all because of him.





	1. Complicated

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally going to post this fic in one go (i.e., dump all 140,000 words on the internet in one go), but I didn’t think that would do the story any justice so I’ll be updating this very sporadically over the next two/three months or so. It’s going to be a long ride, but it’ll be worth it…

MONDAY – SEPTEMBER 2009 – NEW YORK – ELECTRIC LADY STUDIOS

It’s Robbie’s first time. He’s nervous. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he keeps them at his sides while Gary shows him the ropes. Gary’s not nervous at all, and Rob has no idea how he does it. How can Gary be so cool and collected? How can he move his fingers so effortlessly, knowing that this is the first time they’ve ever done this? It doesn’t make sense.

But Gary doesn’t see it like that at all. He’s dreamt of this moment for more than ten years. He’s already imagined every single sound and touch in the private corners of his mind, so why should he be nervous? He’s rehearsed for this day from the moment Take That got back together. He’s ready. He _wants_ this.

Gary wants Robbie closer. He asks Rob to sit next to him. Rob does, nervously so, and Gary indicates the spot where he wants him to put his hands.

Robbie’s not sure. He hesitates. ‘I don’t know about this, Gaz.’

The coy smile that Gary gives Robbie next doesn’t help. It only makes Robbie more nervous.

‘C’mon, Rob,’ Gary says, and Robbie hates himself for staring at Gary’s fingers and thinking how slender they are. He’s actually rather beautiful, Gary is, but it’s not the word Robbie’s mind conjures up. Robbie’s too hopelessly confused to be doing much thinking at all. ‘I won’t judge.’

Robbie stares at the keyboard in front of them, where Gary’s been sat for the past five minutes to play him a song Robbie knows he’ll never top.

‘I think I’d rather sit this one out if that’s okay, Gaz. You know, just watch you and the other lads do your thing for a few days, if you know what I mean.’ Robbie’s excuse is not entirely true, but it’s better than admitting he’s shit scared to share the songs he came up with in the plane and then in the cab to the hotel. They’re nowhere near his best — more like his worst. ‘Do you mind?’

Gary figures that’s it’s a fair idea. Robbie’s way of writing and recording is probably different than Take That’s, anyway: when they’re not busy working their way around a promising melody that Mark dreamt up, the band usually start with a backing track that Gary or Howard brought in. Robbie’s probably more a lyrics-first sort of guy.

‘Fine by me, mate,’ Gary shrugs. ‘I do have to warn you, though. Mark’s probably already come up with about thirty different melodies by the time he gets here so you may wanna be careful sitting back _too_ much. You don’t want the others to think you don’t wanna be there.’

This feels like a disguised jibe about Robbie’s productivity, so Robbie doesn’t say anything and renders the studio completely quiet. Hating silence, Gary quickly decides to get up from his chair and head to the lounge where the lads usually talk and eat take-out. Robbie has no choice but to get up too and to follow him, like a lost little puppy who can’t quite keep up with the bigger dogs. Even now, half an hour into his very first writing session with Gary Barlow from Take That, Robbie still feels like he’s just a visitor to the studio, not a proper member of the band.

Slap bang in the middle of New York – but squashed between a doctor’s office and a shop that sells the sort of stuff you put in sofas –, Take That’s favourite recording studio is overwhelmingly otherworldly. Formerly a place where people came to dance, the building’s interior never got updated beyond its ambient, psychedelic club years, and there are so many Persian rugs that you might be tricked into thinking you walked into the wrong place. Countless gold and platinum records cover up the faded walls, offering enough inspiration to last the lads a lifetime. Preferring solitude, the lads usually book Studio 1, a studio in the basement of the building, where people used to come to dance. There aren’t an awful lot of windows, but there’s something very inspiring about being underground that make the lads come up with more introspective songs than they would in London or L.A.  

There is another reason why the studio is a band favourite. The instruments there are second to none, and the building is so cleverly hidden between two ordinary establishments that Take That aren’t likely to be spotted together. No-one will know that the original members of the band have reunited. No-one, not even the cleverest journalists from the UK.

So, until the lads officially announce their comeback in July the next year, the band will remain a four-piece, and Robbie Williams will still be a solo artist. _Progress_ , in its perfect 42-minute form, is yet to be made. Today, the recording of that album begins.

As per usual, Gary arrived early that day. He went out for a quick jog in New York first thing, then turned into the studio at half ten to work on a backing track he came up with in London. Robbie arrived at the studio’s front doors not long after, nervous as fuck because he hasn’t been in a proper studio for more than a year and finds Gary Barlow fucking intimidating. It’s a right pain.

The boys’ reunion was as painful as reunions can be. Rob and Gary gave each other an awkward man hug that made the both of them turn very red for some reason, and Gary immediately decided to play Robbie the song he’d come up. He didn’t even offer Robbie tea or ask how his flight had been, meaning that Robbie never really got over the nervousness of being in the same room with him. Half an hour and one song later, the atmosphere in the studio is as chilly as can be.

They reach the lounge. Situated in the middle of the studio, the “lounge” is a large, open area where sofas and chairs have been haphazardly put to create a sort of living room. From here, they can see doors leading to every single room in Studio 1: the main studio, where artists come to record; the kitchen; a control room; another studio; a guest room; and, weirdly, a bathroom.

‘So what’d you think of me song, then?’ Gary asks Robbie once they’ve taken their seats.

‘It’s – It’s good, yeah, Gaz. Very nice.’

Robbie rubs his nose. They’re sitting on opposite sofas, as if being so distant at heart wasn’t yet distant away enough. Rob hasn’t looked Gary in the eyes since he got here, and he seems oddly interested in the Persian rugs on the floor. In a lot of ways, he looks a bit like a deer in the headlights, or a child.

‘What’d you think of the middle eight?’ Gary asks.

‘Good, yeah,’ Robbie reiterates. He starts fidgeting with the pillows on his sofa. Every now and then, he glances at the clock in the right-hand corner of the lounge and sighs a little too loudly, like he’s at a record label meeting he doesn’t want to be at. Others might be tempted to think Robbie’s simply bored of being there, but Gary knows better. Robbie’s dead nervous, and Gary has no idea why because he’s constantly told him that if this doesn’t work out they’ll just record the album as a four-piece. There’s no pressure on Rob at all.

‘You know we’re just gonna record some songs here, don’t you, Rob? It’s nothing to be nervous about, it really isn’t.’

‘I know, Gaz.’ More fidgeting. A cushion falls on the floor, and Rob seems distractedly torn between picking it up and just leaving it there. In the end, Rob bends over to pick the cushion up and haphazardly throws it on top of another one. His hands are shaking, and he hides them underneath his thighs when he sees Gary looking. ‘I guess just don’t wanna let you guys down.’

‘You won’t, mate.’

Gary utters these words very decidedly, but in reality he doesn’t feel so sure. Seeing Rob in front of him now, it’s hard not to be reminded of the million and one ways Rob let him down in the nineties, and the difficult years that followed it. There’s every chance that Rob will let him down again, and every chance that he won’t.  

‘Just give it a few days, mate,’ Gary adds. ‘You’ll be fine, honest. We wouldn’t have asked you back here if we didn’t think it would work out. It will.’

This is probably meant to sound reassuring, but Robbie doesn’t feel reassured at all. His throat goes dry, and he wishes Gary would show him where the kitchen is. He’s too fucking nervous to ask, however, so when Robbie speaks next his voice sounds so raw that he has clear his throat and start again.

‘I don’t even know why you asked me back at all to be honest with you, Gaz. I really don’t. Why bother?’

It’s a question that Gary still doesn’t know the answer to. He’s almost tempted to say that he’s doing this purely for the music and that he wants to strengthen the band’s legacy, but then he’d be lying. He’d also be lying if he said he’d be doing it to do Rob a favour, because he’s past that now.

The truth is much simpler: Gary just wants to make Robbie happy, is all. He longs to hear Robbie laugh again. He wants Robbie to experience the rush of making music again. He wants to see warmth and joy whenever Robbie look back at him, not hate and regret.

Most of all, though, Gary wants Robbie to feel the same flutters _he_ does. Deep down, Gary longs for a day when Robbie looks at him and feels tingles all over. But that’s not what he’s been telling himself. This is a matter of music and chart hits, not a matter of the heart.

‘Just felt like it was time, is all,’ is what Gary’s answer sounds like today. ‘I think we’re all at a point now where you joining Take That won’t make us look desperate in the eyes of the public anymore — it’ll just look like five mates making music, really. It makes sense that the reunion takes place on the back of our most successful tour yet.’

This feels like another disguised jibe at Rob’s career, but it isn’t. It’s the most objective, politically correct answer Gary can give. Take That, as a five-piece, can come back next year because it wouldn’t look like a cash-in if they did. They don’t need Rob, and Robbie doesn’t need Take That. They’ll get away with it because the band has been in its imperial phase for the past three years.

But Robbie can only hear the negatives in Gary’s answers, and has done ever since he was talked round about the reunion. Even today, he still feels like he’s about to embark on the darkest, most regrettable journey he’s ever been on.

‘What if it goes wrong, though, Gaz?’ Robbie points out as much. ‘I could be ruining your popularity!’

‘It won’t, Rob. _You_ won’t. Trust me.’

‘How can you be so sure? I mean, I’ve managed to ruin my _own_ career, and I’m Robbie Williams!’

‘I just am, Rob. It’s gonna be an event, this. If we get it right, it’s gonna be bigger than _all_ of our albums. It’s what everyone’s been waiting for. I’ve told you that before.’

Robbie remembers. It was during the match that he and Gary went to in September, Manchester United versus — what was it? He can’t recall. But it was during that match that the idea of a reunion suddenly hit Gary like an epiphany: If they could go to a football match together without wanting to tear each other apart, what _else_ could they do? Could they become proper friends? Could they write a song together? Hell, _record_ one? Or — could the original band get back together? Would that be a possibility? Would that ever work out?

It must do, Gary told Robbie then. (He was a little drunk, which unfortunately made him blissfully optimistic.) It _has_ to. Has to.

A few days later, Gary’s epiphany that Robbie could come back to the band was the only thing he could think about. He told the others about the idea immediately, and Mark, Howard and Jason all reacted true to their characters. Mark loved the idea. Howard was excited, but he did wonder how the fans would react. Jason refused to give Gary an answer immediately and sent him a long, articulate e-mail about the topic two days later. Gary himself had a feeling that it’d be the best pop event of the decade. It was going to set the charts alight.

And Robbie? He wasn’t sure. Still isn’t.

Even now, forty minutes into his first ever writing session with Gary Barlow, Rob’s only a bad moment away from calling it quits. Everyone’s told him that it’s going to be all right and that they’re going to have the most fun a band has ever had, but he’s not so sure. They’re probably all being kind. Or lying. Or both.

For right now, things don’t feel like they’re going to be “all right” at all. This hasn’t been therapeutic. This hasn’t been fun in the slightest, and Robbie doesn’t know if it’s because the others aren’t there yet or because Gary keeps looking at him in a way he doesn’t understand.

***

Despite the boys’ best intentions, their conversation about the brand new album has run its course already. Gary realises with a pang that Mark, Howard, and Jason probably won’t get here until lunchtime, so he decides to offer Rob something to drink so they have something to talk about. Robbie shrugs that he wouldn't mind a cup of tea, and they awkwardly head to the kitchen, talking as little as if they were strangers. Hopefully, Mark will have written so many songs that they won’t get a word in edgeways by the time he gets here.

Robbie and Gary arrive at the kitchen a couple of seconds. It’s small, but most studios don’t have a kitchen anyway so it’ll do. The half-empty bowl that Gary used for his porridge with dried fruits and nuts is still there, and he quickly rinses the bowl before Robbie can see. He doesn’t want Robbie to find out that he has to be conscious of what he eats.

Once Gary’s put away his bowl, he finds the wooden tea box that he took with him from the UK and opens it. He’s already run out of Yorkshire Earl Grey, his favourite.

‘You want anything in particular, Rob?’

‘I’ll just have what you’re having, Gaz. Just don’t give me that camomile shit that Jay used to like in the nineties,’ Rob says without so much having looked at the tea box, like he’s too scared to look at whatever Gary’s hands are doing. In a previous life Gary might have found Robbie’s shyness endearing, but it’s a bloody nuisance now. _I_ should be doing that, he thinks, not Rob!

Sadly, Gary can’t bring it up. He doesn’t know how. He, Mark, Howard, and Jason talk about how they feel on a regular basis (covering everything from anxiety to girlfriends to what Gary had for breakfast that morning), but he has no idea if Robbie’s like that too. Robbie hardly ever talks. He comes across as fragile and shy. He doesn’t seem to like it when Gary looks at him.

Gary figures that Robbie’s behaviour makes sense given what the two put each other through in the nineties, but it can’t go on forever. Recording this album will probably take about a year, and that’s a long time to keep your feelings bottled up. Robbie _has_ to open up one day or else face the consequences.

Regardless, several minutes pass without the two men talking to each other. Without meaning to, Gary directs his thoughts towards topics that have nothing to do with music.

What will he have for breakfast tomorrow? More porridge.

Where will he go on his next morning run? Central Park.

Will he go shopping? Possibly, but not with Mark — the man’s insufferable in a clothes shop.

How will he spend his evenings? He doesn’t know. Being with Rob has filled Gary with a conflict of feelings; the conflict of simultaneously wanting to crawl into bed with a book and wanting to chat up a stranger at a bar. He wants to jog and exercise and meditate, but also mess up his body with a naughty rebound from a relationship that was never even reciprocated.

Most of all, though, he just wants to _talk._ That’s it. Talk. Nothing more. They don’t even have to make music.

The water in the electric cooker is only moments away from boiling. As he listens to the gurgling, spitting water, Gary decides he’s going to make another attempt at talking to Rob, even if it’s just about a song that he wrote.

‘I like your new single, by the way,’ Gary tells Robbie before opening a cupboard to find two Star Wars mugs he bought at a shopping centre the other day. He searches the corners of his memory for the name of the song. ‘ _Bodies_ , isn’t it? The lyrics are quite good.’

The compliment doesn’t really seem to have reached Robbie’s consciousness, but then again he’s never responded well to praise. If he could, Robbie would read every single negative comment about himself on the internet and believe all of them.

Robbie stays quiet, but Gary keeps trying. He remembers _Bodies_ being a vague exploration of religion, which is something Gary’s recently been writing about too despite not being religious. ‘What’s it about?’

Rob shrugs. He still doesn’t acknowledge Gary’s compliment. ‘Dunno. Gibberish. I was fucking stoned when I wrote that song, to be honest, Gaz.’

This makes Gary let out a short bark of a laugh, but Rob isn’t smiling. Gary poorly covers up his laugh with a cough, and it immediately marks the end of their conversation.

Still, it’s a start. They may not be talking much, but they’re still far more talkative than they ever were.

Before the reunion, Rob and Gary didn’t even acknowledge each other. They flat out refused to answer questions about the other, like doing so would eventually erase the bad memories from the past. That way, Rob would never have to be reminded of being a member of Take That ever again, and Gary could finally pretend that Rob had never been a subject of his fantasies. In their minds, the other guy simply didn’t exist. It’s a miracle they’re even in the same room together.

The water has boiled, and Gary neatly pours it into his mugs. He’s already put the tea bags in. The calming blend of camomile and lavender instantly hits Gary’s nostrils, and he almost feels like things are back to normal again. Almost.

‘Do you take anything with your tea, Rob?’

Rob does. Gary pours three spoonfuls of sugar into Rob’s tea and hands him his cup, Star Wars logo up front. Their fingers briefly brush in the process, but Gary doesn’t think anything of it. It doesn’t colour his cheeks or flutter his stomach. It might have done, once, back in the nineties, but being touched by Rob leaves him cold now.

The silence has gone on for too long, so Gary tries to pick up the thread of their conversation. He clutches his own cup in his hands; feels it warm up his body on a cold September morning.

‘Is that how you write most of your songs, Rob? Under the influence?’

It’s meant to be a genuine show of interest, but Gary utters it poorly, like an insult. It makes Rob cross his arms and scratch them with his fingernails.

‘It’s not how I’m gonna write them with _you_ , if that’s what you’re suggestin’,’ Rob barks, and it makes him sound like he’s defending himself even though he doesn’t have to. ‘You know I’m gonna try to be sober this time. Have been for months.’

‘I know. I’m not suggesting anything.’

‘That’s not what it sounded like.’

Gary regrets his words. He should have worded them better. He takes a sip of calming tea to collect his thoughts and reminisces about what Rob used to be like when they first met: cheeky, funny, naughty – in a ‘playing pranks’ sort of way. He was usually the first person to make a joke about a bad situation, which they’re probably going to need quite a lot of over the next few weeks.

Gary tries to lighten the mood, Robbie Williams style. He remembers a discussion he and Howard had a couple of weeks ago, and it offers the perfect distraction:

‘I’m just curious about how you write, is all,’ Gary says. ‘Howard and I made a bet about whether you’re a lyrics-first kind of guy, actually.’

Robbie relaxes for the first time that morning. He forgets he had built a wall of ice all around him. ‘Seriously, Gaz? You made a bet about what kind of songwriter I am?’

‘Yeah.’

Robbie can’t help it. The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. The idea that he’s the subject of a bet is strangely flattering. It _excites_ him, like knowing that Gary might lose a few quid because of him is the single best thing he’s heard all week.

‘So . . . what do _you_ think?’

‘I’m not saying till Howard gets here. I have a lot of money riding on this, Rob!’

The mention of Gary having a lot of money riding on the bet transform Robbie’s entire face. He grins. He’s no longer avoiding Gary’s gaze. It reminds Gary of the young sixteen-year-old who used to play pranks on his bandmates all day, and he’s suddenly glad that he brought this up. He’s missed this guy.

‘ _How_ much?’ Robbie asks.

Gary grimaces. He stares into his cup of tea. ‘One hundred . . .’

‘ _GAZ!_ ’ Rob laughs for the first time that morning, and it sounds a favourite song that Gary hadn’t played for twenty years. 'The last time we went shopping together you were still tryin’ to bargain for a bloody pair of jeans in Ashton . . . Fame’s _changed_ you,’ he tuts.

‘I know. It’s terrible,’ Gary laughs. ‘‘s what happens when Dougie gets you drunk. He’s really adamant he’s going to win, as well!’

‘D’you reckon he will?’

‘I hope not, he’d have a bloody field day!’

Rob chuckles. He takes his first sip of tea. ‘I’m not sayin’ I’m rootin’ for him, all right, but I am a little bit, mate. I’m rooting for Howard.’

‘Fair enough, mate.’

The boys finish their camomile and lavender teas in silence, but there’s been a tangible change in the room. Gary feels a lot less tension already, and Robbie thinks he’s finally gained the courage to look Gary in the eye. Rob’s constantly met with an undecipherable green-eyed stare that makes his stomach go all funny, and he looks away every time, a little red in the face. Rob blames the upset in his stomach on the fast food he had last night, and Gary is too relieved that they’re on talking terms to notice.   

They’ve run out of tea, so Gary decides to put a fresh kettle on and put together a collection of healthy snacks. He figures Mark and the others will probably get here within the next ten minutes or so, so he adds more water than the first time and hopes Jason won’t mind that he can’t offer him any mineral water, his favourite.

Gary puts Robbie put in charge of preparing the coffee that Howard prefers, and over the next few minutes Rob and Gary make a rather strange spectacle: two estranged mates, doing impossibly ordinary things in a New York kitchen that isn’t theirs. It shouldn’t work, but for some reason it does.

The water finishes boiling. The bitter scent of coffee fills the air. The light from the tiny window in the studio fills the kitchen with a warm, yellow glow. Robbie finds an unexpected comfort in plating an empty bowl with the vegan nut bars Gary hands him, and he thinks he finally feels at ease with being here when there’s a deafening _RIIIIING._  

It’s just the doorbell upstairs, but it’s enough to make Rob start. He drops the bowl he was holding. It lands on the floor with a loud _clang_ , and all its contents fall out.

Rob feels nervous once more. His hands are shaking again. He’s gone back to avoiding Gary’s gaze, like the sound of the doorbell has scarily reminded him of what they’re here to do.

_They’re here to record Take That’s sixth studio album._

Rob’s almost tempted to ask Gary to reconsider and ignore whoever’s rang the doorbell, but it’s too late now. Gary has already neglected his tea and nut bars and returned to the lounge, where he presses a small button that will open the front door upstairs. A second later, a single set of footsteps herald someone coming down the stairs to meet them.

Robbie would guess it’s probably Mark who’s coming down. If it is, then Rob will feel a lot better. He likes Mark. _Knows_ him. But at the same time, Mark’s one of those people Robbie will never be able to compete with creatively. Mark lives and _loves_ music more than any of them. If Mark’s here with them, Rob will constantly feel like he’s meant to bring something to the table within minutes of their meeting, stifling him.  

Then again, it’s not much better being alone with Gary. Gary makes him nervous. Gary _scares_ him. When they’re not laughing about bets and music together, Gary reminds Rob of being relegated to the back of gigs. He reminds Rob of being a scared, anxious, self-destructive sixteen-year-old who had to walk on eggshells every time his bandmates were near.

But even worse is the uncertainty; the inevitability of not knowing where these writing sessions will go. Rob might throw in the towel within an hour. Or a day. He might leave the band a day before the album’s announced, or never leave at all. He has no idea where he’ll be a month or a year from now, just that Gary will, in some way, be responsible for everything.

There’s a knock on the door. Whoever rang the doorbell has walked all the way from the ground floor to the basement. Rob has no idea who it is, but he hopes it’s Howard. Or Jay. Or Mark, after all. Or all three of them. But preferably Howard, for he doesn’t judge and talk as much.

It’s Mark.

The door opens. A black trilby shows up from behind the door first, then Mark’s million-dollar smile. Robbie feels instantly relieved.

Likewise, Mark turns into an excited blabbering mess when he sees who’s waiting for him in the lounge. ‘ _Rob_! I wasn’t sure you were comin’ in today! Have you enjoyed New York? Have the people been nice to you? I hope they have. It’s an amazing city, isn’t it? Did you go to the sights I told you about? C’mere, mate . . .’

Mark embraces Rob in a warmer, tighter hug than Gary could ever give him. He gives Gary an equally amicable hug and a kiss on the cheek, and when they’ve finally finished hugging and patting each other’s backs Mark can’t help but let out a warm, disbelieving laugh that makes Gary laugh too.

‘Can you believe we’re actually in the same room together? This is special, isn’t it? And trust you to be here already, Gaz – you work too hard, you know. I see you’ve already written about thirty-six different songs!’

Gary glances at the “songs” Mark’s talking about. He means the piles of paper strewn all over a lounge table, scribbled full of lyrics and ideas Gary came up with last night. Rob hadn’t even seen the papers yet, and he wishes Mark hadn’t pointed it out. He’ll never be able to compete with that many lyrics.

‘They’re just ideas, is all,’ Gary’s quick to point out, seeing Robbie’s dejected look at the table. ‘And anyway, you say that like it’s a bad thing, Marko.’

‘It is when you’ve already finished half of the record, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark says, but there’s no poison in it.

‘I thought that was _your_ job.’

‘ _Nah_ ,’ Mark shrugs, smiling. ‘Not when Robbie’s here – this album is going to be so special!’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ This comes from Gary. Seeing the three of them together has filled him with a surge of excitement in his heart. ‘I was just telling Rob that, actually!’

This makes Mark exchange brief glances between Rob and Gary, like he knows something they don’t. The boys may be smiling _now_ , but the tension is palpable. You don’t put these two men in one same room together without feeling that unspoken thing no-one’s talking about.

‘You two getting on all right, then?’ Mark aims his next words at Gary in particular. ‘You know, _funny stuff_?’

Rob and Gary look at each other. ‘Course not,’ they stutter at the same time, and Mark doesn’t need to be a genius to know that it’s a lie. You can tell just by looking at them. Even a child could see what’s going on here — everyone but them.

Mark pretends not to have heard. He utters something disingenuous about being happy that the two of them bonding so well, and they wordlessly head back into the lounge to discuss the songs they’ve written.

They take their seats on the leather sofas in the lounge. Mark quickly claims an entire sofa of his own by kicking off his shoes and resting his legs on the seats, and Robbie and Gary have no choice but to share a sofa in front of him. It’s a lot smaller, and their knees brush when they sit down. It makes Gary feel very hot and frustrated inside, and Gary gives Mark an angry look when Robbie isn’t looking. Mark responds with a cheeky million-dollar smile.

‘So what were you guys up to before I got ‘ere, Mr. Barlow?’

‘Not much, to be honest,’ Gary says, his voice sounding higher than usual. He wishes Rob would move a few inches so that their knees would stop touching. ‘I played Rob the backing track I told you about the other day.’

This gets Mark’s attention. He leans forward, all ears. ‘The one you wrote back home?’

Gary tries to keep his voice level when he feels Rob’s thigh against his own. He makes a mental note that they should record the next album in a studio that has bigger sofas and more leg space. ‘That’s the one.’

Mark makes a sound of endearment. ‘I _loved_ that one. I bet we could turn it into something really special once Howard and Jay get here.’ He turns to Rob, who starts when his name is mentioned. ‘What’d you think of it, Rob?’

Rob blinks as though waking up from a dream. He looks somewhat distracted. He was happy just sitting back and listening to what the other guys were saying. That way, he won’t feel silly or pushy for suggesting anything.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Gary’s song,’ Mark reiterates. ‘What’d you think?’

Rob knows they’re just trying to make him feel at ease, but frankly he can’t remember a single thing about the song Gary played him. He’s tempted to lie that he absolutely loved it, but then he remembers how poorly he’s been at lying lately. Mark would probably see straight through it.

Rob prepares for the worst. He looks at Gary. ‘Are you gonna be really mad at me if I admit that I wasn’t really payin’ attention, Gaz? I’m sorry. It’s not you, I just space out sometimes. Because of my nervousness,’ he adds, in case Mark might have been under the impression that his lack of concentration was caused by something else.

Rob’s admission hurts, but Gary doesn’t blame him. If _he_ spent all morning showing more interest in the records on the wall, he probably wouldn’t remember much either.

‘That’s all right, mate. I could play it to you again, if you want. Like I said earlier, I’d love to get your input.’ Gary looks at Mark, who’s giving him an encouraging nod. ‘We _all_ would.’

The latter is probably a lie, but Rob nods anyway. ‘Yes, please, Captain.’

‘I’ll grab me laptop, then. Can’t be arsed to get out me keyboard again.’

Pleased to get away from Rob for another moment, Gary gets up from the sofa a bit too enthusiastically. Similarly, Rob lets out a sigh of relief the moment Gary’s out of sight.

It feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. They may have had fun in the kitchen, but Rob feels better instantly. He glances at Mark, who’s looking back at him with an undecipherable blue-eyed stare.

Rob doesn’t want to bring it up, but he’s going to bring it up anyway. ‘I don’t know how you can work with Gary Barlow on a daily basis to be honest with you, Markie.’

This makes Mark frown, if Mark Owen from Take That is capable of frowning. He usually avoids talking about his bandmates behind their backs, but he feels like this is something he needs to get to the bottom of. ‘What’d you mean?’

‘Doesn’t he make _you_ nervous, Mark?’

Mark shakes his head. He has no idea what Rob’s talking about; he likes working with everyone! ‘Why would Gaz make me nervous? I like being in the studio with him.’

Rob scoffs. ‘Well, I don’t, mate. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells today, Markie. I feel like every moment Gary’s gonna turn into that guy who made me life hell when I was sixteen. And sometimes I think it’s getting better and we’re headed towards something really fucking amazing together, but then he looks at me again and I feel like I’m right back where I started. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so uncomfortable, and _everything_ makes me uncomfortable.’

‘Don’t be silly, Rob. He didn’t make your life _hell_. That’s an awful thing to say,’ says Mark, who’s not used to hearing his bandmates being talked about like that.

‘Bloody feels like he did, though,’ Rob says, standing his ground with stubborn resolve. ‘I couldn’t even look ‘im in the eyes when we were making tea, Markie. You know what I mean? And I guess we did talk about music and stuff, but it’s not gonna be like that all the time, is it? Most of the time I’m just gonna feel scared. It’s like I’m in a horror movie and I’m constantly gonna have to look over me shoulder to make sure I don’t get stabbed in the back . . .’

Mark shakes his head, ignoring the comment about horror movies and being stabbed. He tempted to say that it sounds like Rob’s just in denial about loving Gaz, but he’s not going to mention it. That’s Gary’s job, not his. He’s just here to give the both of them a gentle nudge.

‘Just give it time, Rob. You’re not gonna feel like this forever, you know. The first time _we_ went into the studio to record _Beautiful World_ we didn’t know what the hell we were doing either. None of us did. But then Gaz came in with the melody of _Wait For Life_ and Howard came up with this, you know – this _amazing_ set of lyrics, and everything kind of just happened organically after that. We all contributed that day.

‘It’ll be the same this time, trust me. I know it probably looks like Gary only cares about the material cos that’s what he used to be like when we were young, but he’s not like that anymore. He cares about us. Even you. _Especially_ you.’

If this comment is meant to be some sort of quiet hint about Gary’s feelings, then Rob doesn’t get it. He just shrugs and poorly changes the topic. ‘How’re you doing, anyway, Mark? You done much writing yourself?’

‘A bit. Not as much as I would have liked. I’m more interested in what Gary’s come up with. Ah, here he is now.’

As though on cue, Gary comes back from the control room with a thin silver laptop in one hand and a smartphone in the other. He looks slightly distracted as he slides his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

‘You okay, Gaz?’ Mark asks, seeing the look on Gary’s face.

‘Yeah. No. Howard phoned,’ Gary says, jumping slightly at the sound of Mark’s voice because his mind was otherwise occupied with the slight change of plans. ‘He says he and Jay won’t get here till this evening . . .’

‘Are they all right?’ This comes from Rob. He looks visibly relieved when Gary decides to keep standing in the lounge with his laptop, like he’s a ringleader and Rob and Mark are the audience he’s about to impress. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to sit back down again.

‘Yeah,’ Gary says, looking at his laptop as though he can’t remember why he took it with him. ‘It’s just that their flight’s been delayed is all. Nothing serious. You know what BA are like around this time of year . . .’

‘Oh.’ Rob’s not sure if he’s relieved or not. Part of him was looking forward to meeting the others again, but he was also dreading it because it would be two more people he’d have to impress. ‘Are they gonna get here on time?’

‘Probably not, mate. I guess it’s just gonna be the three of us till they come in tomorrow,’ Gary says, sounding disappointed too. He gives Robbie an odd glance, and Robbie takes the look to mean that Gary’s dreading spending another day alone with him. In reality, Gary was just really hoping to play Howard his backing track.

Thankfully, Mark sees a positive in every negative. ‘I suppose Howard and Jay not being here yet just means we have to work even harder now. We do want to play them at least one song tomorrow, don’t we? You know, like the one you said you were going to play us . . ?’

Gary jerks awake. ‘You’re right, I _was_ going to play you something, wasn’t I? Hang on . . .’

Spurred on by Mark’s keenness to move on, Gary puts his bandmates’ delay at the back of his mind. He flips open his laptop, and it’s all he focuses on over the next couple of minutes. Finding his brand new backing track in the midst of the hundreds upon thousands of old soundbites on his laptop requires concentration.

A minute later, he finds the file. He’s still standing in the lounge, with Robbie and Mark looking up at him.  

‘So this song I’m about to play to you – I dunno, I must’ve put it together in about twenty minutes last week. It’s just a backing track at the moment, but I’ve absolutely no idea what to do with it next so any feedback is welcome, really. Especially from you, Marko, I know you’re dyin’ to get your teeth into this one.’

‘Is there anything in particular you want us to help you with?’ Mark asks.

‘Anything you want, really. Think lyrics, think melodies – anything to take it to that next level. You’re usually brilliant at turning these backing tracks into songs, mate,’ Gary tells Mark in particular, making Robbie feel a strange pang of jealousy that he dismisses as quickly as he felt it.

A moment later, Gary presses PLAY. What flows out of his laptop’s speakers next is a backing track similar to the one Gary played Robbie on his keyboard earlier, but with a few added flourishes. There’s a thumping, glittering baseline throughout, and every now and then Rob thinks he can hear a violin. It’s beautiful.

Mark’s bobbing his head along in complete concentration, and Robbie relaxes again. He closes his eyes to shut out Gary staring at him. He focuses all his attention on the song’s drumbeat, perfectly matching the pace of his own beating heart. It’s stunning.

The second chorus kicks in, and a top melody hits Rob like an epiphany. It's only a bud of a sound in his mind, but he can hear it more and more clearly as the seconds tick away. It flows and soars just like the backing track that Gary wrote.

For a blissful moment, the music makes Rob forget everything. He starts humming the melody that's stuck in his head, sound for sound. There are no words yet, but the song doesn’t need them. His melody fits Gary's bare instrumental like a glove, and when Rob opens his eyes he realises that Mark's humming it too.

Mark's taken over, effortlessly. He adds small melodious runs of gibberish of his own, and by the time Gary’s instrumental ends they’ve got the melody of the chorus all figured out. Mark’s grabbed a notebook to jot down random lyrics, and even Rob’s written down a few of his own on a paper napkin.

The song starts all over again, and all three of them hum Rob’s melody in perfect symphony till the track ends. During the third play, Mark starts singing the lyrics of the chorus he came up with out loud. A minute later, Robbie and Gary join him so effortlessly that it’s as if the lyrics have always been inside of them.

It’s exhilarating. The song ends, but the high doesn’t fade. Rob looks Gary in the eye for only the second or third time that day, and they both start grinning. Like children on Christmas day, they look more excited than they ever have — all because of a single, resounding melody that they all came up with.

Mark’s grinning too. ‘Did we just write our first ever song together?’

‘I think we did,’ Gary says with pride, and he can’t help but look at Robbie again. He doesn’t know how long this feeling will last, but in the seven minutes he just spent listening, writing, and singing with Robbie Williams, Gary felt more alive than ever. For seven blissful minutes, Rob was nothing but a mate he’s making music with, nothing else.

Gary gestures at the lyrics Rob’s jotted down on his napkin. They’re for the first verse, which Gary didn’t even get round to yet. ‘Can I have a look at that?’

This makes Rob feel a stab of nervousness. He glances at Mark, who’s nodding encouragingly.

‘I don’t know, lads,’ Robbie says, and he finds himself unable to look at Gary again now that their song isn’t playing in the background anymore. He stares at Mark’s notebook, which is covered in lyrics for the same verse. ‘I think I prefer Mark’s.’

‘It’s kinda _your_ melody, Rob,’ Mark’s quick to point out. ‘You should go first.’

‘You wrote a lot more than me, though.’

It’s true, but Mark doesn’t want to discourage Rob from sharing. This should be _Rob’s_ moment, not his.

‘They’re not that good, I’m afraid,’ Mark lies, and he demonstratively closes his notebook and puts it behind his back, where Robbie can’t reach it.  

Gary joins Mark’s efforts to make Robbie share. ‘C’mon, Rob. Show us your lyrics,’ he says as encouragingly as he can, and in a flash of bravery Gary decides to sit next to Rob on the sofa. He gives Rob a gentle nudge with his elbow and tells himself it won’t count as touching. ‘I bet they’re brilliant.’

Rob hesitates. ‘Promise you won’t make fun of me?’ This is directed at Gary, not Mark.

‘Promise, mate.’

‘But what if it’s really bad?’

‘It won’t be,’ Gary reassures him.

‘Definitely not,’ Mark agrees.

‘But I haven’t had a hit for three years!’ Robbie cries. ‘Me most recent album was made into Chinese roads! Maybe I’ve become a terrible lyricist and you’re all about to read the worst chorus anyone’s ever written.’

Mark tuts. He shakes his head. ‘ _Rudebox_ isn’t _that_ bad, Rob. Just different. And I don’t think that rumour about the album being made into roads is true, you know. Just an urban myth.’

‘But it was on the internet,’ Robbie says matter-of-factly. ‘Someone wrote an article.’

‘That doesn’t make it _true_ , Rob.’

‘It doesn’t?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

Mark takes their conversation back to where it started. ‘Anyway, if the chorus is really that bad then we’ll just try again. And again. But I don’t think we’re gonna have to, you know. Not with you. I mean, you’re Robbie _Williams_. I know you think that everyone thinks you’ve become a terrible lyricist but you’re not. Trust me.’

It’s Mark’s reassuring smile that does it. Rob relaxes. He lets out a deep breath. How can he feel so relaxed one moment and so shit scared the next? It doesn’t make sense. His best mate Mark is here, and Gary’s been nicer than he has for years. He feels all right. He doesn’t _need_ to be nervous, and yet he is. Every time. All Gary needs to do is look at him, and Rob turns into a stammering mess who’s too afraid to share his songs.   

The only thing that makes sense are the lyrics in front of him. He wrote them with clarity. He wrote them in a flash of complete confidence, worlds away from the conflict of feelings Gary’s putting him through. Rob may not understand how being in Take That is making him feel _now_ , but he does understand how he felt in the nineties. This entire chorus is about it.

Robbie takes a deep breath to stay his nerves. He decides to read his lyrics out loud, word for word, till he’s desperately out of breath.

By the time Rob reaches the final line, Gary is met with a feeling that he’s previously only felt with _Patience_ and _Back For Good_. _This_ is what they came here for. This is the one. These lines are exactly the sort of thing Take That should be singing about in 2009. In other words, they’ve done it — only one song in.

Usually Gary doesn’t like to mention the word ‘lyrics’ and ‘lead single’ in the same breath until they’ve finished an album, but what Rob just read out loud is so good that he can’t help it. He has a good feeling about this.

‘D’you know what, Rob, those lyrics are absolutely gorgeous, they are,’ Gary tells Rob. I genuinely think we might have found our lead single already.’

Robbie feels relief wash all over him. He sits straighter. ‘Seriously? You’re not just sayin’ that to make me feel good?’

‘No. This is good, this.’ Gary turns to Mark, who hasn’t said anything yet. ‘What’d you think, mate?’

Mark doesn’t say. He’s staring at his own notebook, where he copied some of Rob’s lyrics and crossed out the words he doesn’t like the look of. Lost deep in thought, Mark looks like he’s trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle Robbie and Gary can’t see.

Then Mark tells them what he thinks. He does so with the utter calm of a polite Hufflepuffian politician who’s about to point out he doesn’t like a particular amendment. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Rob, but there are a few things I’d change about the lyrics.’

‘Oh, here we go,’ Gary laughs, but there’s no venom in it. He loves this bit.  

‘Do you mind if I told you what I’d change?’ Mark asks Rob, just to make sure that he’s not about to hurt Rob’s feelings.

Robbie shakes his head. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Well, I’d do this.’ Mark points his pen at a lyric and underlines it with a flourish. He adds a few exclamation marks as well, very big ones. ‘The _shouting love at the heart of the_ world bit here? Maybe we could change it into, I don’t know — _shouting love at the world_? It sounds nicer. Like, more rounded.’

‘Why, though?’ This comes from Gary. He loves to challenge Mark whenever he gets particularly pedantic about a lyric or melody. ‘It’s a good line, Marko.’

‘I know, but it’s about two syllables too long compared to the rest of the melody,’ Mark offers as politely as he can. He knows Gary’s probably thinking it too, but he reckons it’ll sound better coming from him. ‘Sorry, Rob. I do like it, you know. I like it a lot.’

Rob turns to Gary, who’s typed down every single lyric and idea they’ve mentioned so far, like a secretary at a business meeting. ‘What’d you reckon, Gaz?’

‘Dunno. Dougie would know, he’s a star at this sort of thing. He can usually hear a good melody from a mile off. Mind you, the rest of it is absolutely brilliant,’ Gary, and the smile that he gives Robbie next is so genuine that Rob brightens from head to toe. ‘I genuinely think we might be onto something here, Rob, I really do. You sure you don’t wanna share the song you said you’d written earlier? You’re doing well today!’

Rob feels nervous at the very suggestion. ‘I don’t know, Gaz. Why don’t we continue workin’ on this song instead? We could record some bits of it, if you guys want.’ 

The moment the words leave Rob’s mouth, he regrets them. Actually _recording_ a song is a lot more difficult than just writing one. Recording a song makes it _real_. It turns the words on paper into a genuine project made of flesh and blood.

Worse still, Robbie has no idea how Take That actually record their songs. He’s caught a glimpse of their writing process, but things are different when you head into a booth to sing and record. How do they decide who sings lead vocals? Do they fight over it? Do they vote? Is there one member in the band who always records a demo? Do they record any demos at all? How the hell are they going to do this?

Mark thinks he can tell what’s on Rob’s mind. He brings it up before Rob can pepper them with a million questions. ‘You’re probably wonderin’ how we record our songs, aren’t you, Rob?’

Rob nods. ‘How do you decide who —? You know. I’m just so used to Gary singin’ everything!’ He gives Gary an apologetic look. ‘No offence, Gaz.’

Gary can’t really get angry at Rob’s comment, since it’s little more than a fact. He figures he’s probably deserved it after all the years he spent singing almost every Take That song. ‘None taken, mate. You know I would have let you sing more if the record label let me.’

Mark knows that this isn’t entirely true, so he interjects with a polite explanation about their recording process, sparing Rob and Gary from having to dredge up the past again.

‘We don’t decide anything, Rob,’ Mark says. ‘We just _know_ , usually. When me and Gary came in with _Wooden Boat_ one morning it didn’t take us that long to decide that Jay’s voice would probably sound best. And it depends on who wrote it, I guess. You don’t really want someone else singin’ about something _you_ wrote. Especially if it’s personal.’

‘It’s why we never give out songs that ended up missing the record,’ Gary adds. ‘We don’t want other artists taking the credit for our boring private lives.’

‘And our demos are usually shit anyway,’ Mark adds with a pout.

‘I guess it depends on the album, too, though,’ Gary explains. ‘I don’t think _The Circus_ would have sounded as good with me singin’ everything. It has Mark all over it, that album has. But that’s why it’s so good.’

‘And I bribed him, you know,’ Mark tells Rob conspiratorially, and he lets out an infectious laugh that makes Robbie laugh out loud too. ‘He said I had to give him money or he wouldn’t let me sing _Hold Up A Light_!’

‘Don’t put him off now, Mark,’ Gary jets, ‘we were finally gettin’ somewhere here! Anyway, Rob, what we’re sayin’ is that this song’s all yours if you want it.’

Rob looks up at that. ‘Seriously? You’re givin’ me a song of me own already?’

‘We are, yeah.’

‘But don’t you wanna wait till the others get here? I wouldn’t mind.’

‘They’d agree with me, Rob. Trust me. This track — it’s yours. These verses are, anyway. We’ve still got the rest to figure out.’

‘You’re _sure_ , though, aren’t you, Gaz? I mean, I haven’t been into a recording booth for _years_. I could sound like bloody _Cher_ for all I know.’

Gary laughs, but Robbie’s serious. He needs to be certain. He _needs_ to know that he genuinely has the boys’ support and that they’re not just doing it to make him feel better. After all, he never got any support in the nineties. The lads dropped him the moment he no could no longer fit inside the perfect boy band mould.

In Rob’s confused, anxious mind, Gary could still tell him that he’s worthless over and over. He could still pull the rug from underneath Rob’s feet and not give him any songs at all. It’s a ridiculous feeling to have, but that doesn’t stop him from being completely and utterly terrified.

The apprehension shows on Robbie’s face. Gary can’t help it. He gives Rob’s thigh an encouraging squeeze, and he regrets it immediately. Rob’s leg is too warm; too soft. It’s perfect. It reminds Gary of all the years wanting to touch that spot under very different circumstances, and he immediately puts his hand back on the armrest like he never did anything.

Gary tries to give his mates a reassuring smile to make himself look impossibly innocent, but the deed has already been done. It’s too late. Mark’s looking at him fiercely, and Gary turns red at once.

Mark knows.

He _knows_.

Meanwhile, Rob’s none the wiser. He’s tempted to ask Gary if he’s just doing this to make him feel good, but the Gary Barlow _he_ knows doesn’t do that kind of thing. If Gary says he thinks the song will sound best with Rob on lead vocals, then it must be true.

Still – it doesn’t make believing it any easier. It doesn’t make the walk to the recording booth any shorter. Gary and Mark may believe in him, but Robbie does not.

With Gary too flustered to talk, it’s up to Mark to put Robbie at ease. ‘Like Gary said, Rob, this song could be yours if you want it. All you have to do is record it. And I know that’s a big step because you haven’t been in a studio for ages, but we believe in you. Promise.’

Rob’s eyes flick into the direction of the recording booth. The prospect of going in there is very daunting indeed, so he tries to convince himself that it won’t be a problem. He tells himself that it’s just like going into his living room. Or his kitchen. Or his bedroom. After all, his bedroom is where he recorded _You Know_ _Me_. This doesn’t have to be difficult — just different.

Rob won’t remember it afterwards, but something prompts him to get up from the sofa. A minute or an eternity later, he’s standing inside a cold, empty recording booth with a pair of large headphones round his neck. He’s terrified, but he’s trying not to let it show. He closes his eyes and pictures his comfortable living room in L.A. as someone hands him the lyrics they wrote together and closes the door.

The first note of Gary’s backing track makes Rob start. It brings him back to his cold, comfortless surroundings in New York, so he tries to focus on his living room again. He pictures the carpet beneath his feet. He tries to bring back to mind the smell of his dogs as he messes up the first line of the song. He closes his eyes when he sees Mark and Gary looking back at him through the glass partition. He tries not to see Gary’s fingers touch the mixing board in front of him.

The chorus kicks in, and Rob reaches a pivotal moment when he feels completely at ease. For some reason, the lyrics start to roll off his tongue like he’s rehearsed them for years. His body moves along to the beat. He’s in tune.

The first verse finishes and the backing track stops, and when Rob takes off his headphones he feels the same delicious high he did when he recorded his first Take That solo. But this time, Gary isn’t staring back at him with naïve, youthful contempt — Gary’s looking at him with the utmost love and respect.

Gary’s voice crackles alive inside the recording booth. ‘That was brilliant, mate,’ he says. ‘Really good. D’you mind if we go over that first line again, though? It was a bit wobbly, that one.’

Rob knows he messed up that line, so it’s a fair remark. He holds the lyrics sheet to give the song a better look, then puts it back on the lyrics stand because his hands are shaking. He convinces himself that his hands must be shaking because he just recorded a song for the first time in three years.

‘D’you mean _my_ line or Mark’s version, Gaz?’

Gary looks over at Mark, who shrugs indifferently and says something Robbie can’t hear. Gary nods too and presses a button on the mixing board that makes his voice come back. ‘Try Mark’s version, mate.’

‘Were me vocals any good, though, Gaz?’ Rob asks a little uncertainly. ‘You’ve gotta tell me if they weren’t, mate. I can record it again if you need me to.’

‘No need, Rob. Vocals were fine,’ Gary says, and he means it. Mark’s nodding too; Rob sounded great recording that, perhaps even better than ever. ‘Just make sure you get that first line right, mate. Just that one line, and we’re already halfway there.’

‘I don’t know how you can be so sure, Gaz, we’ve only had this song for a few hours!’

‘I can just feel it, Rob. Always do. I’m tellin’ you, this’ll be great, this. Especially with _your_ vocals,’ he adds with a cheeky wink at Mark.

The compliment coaxes Robbie into a smile. Gary’s been suspiciously kind to him since they wrote this song, but it’s better than going back to being bloody terrified about having a cup of fucking tea. It’s like he never left. ‘Are you sayin’ that just to put loads of pressure on me, Gaz?’

Gary gives Rob the sweetest smile he can manage, and Gary nearly tricks himself into thinking he feels _something_ for Rob again. The next second, it’s gone.

It’s hard to look at Rob, sometimes. Most of the time looking at Rob makes Gary feel absolutely nothing, but then the light catches the greens in Rob’s eyes or Rob smiles at him like he used to when they were young, and Gary feels a spark again. A sort of light, reignited.

Gary often brushes the feeling away like it’s no more than a misplaced flutter that should have died ten or fifteen years ago, but deep down he knows better. His feelings will be in the back of his mind for a long time yet, and that’s okay. After all, Gary’s learned how to live with these feelings for the past decade; a long time to get over someone, but not yet long enough. He’ll get over Rob eventually, but not today. Not tomorrow.

Rob’s voice brings Gary’s world back into focus. He sounds as if he’s been trying to reach Gary’s consciousness for some time. ‘Gaz? D’you want me to record the vocals in the same way or try something different?’

‘S-sorry, mate,’ Gary stammers, almost forgetting to press the button that makes him heard inside Rob’s recording booth. Mark’s looking at him with that same puzzled frown that suits him so ill, and he knows that Mark must have seen him spacing out. Sometimes Gary wishes Mark wouldn’t pick up on these things so quickly. ‘What were you saying?’

‘Whether I need to record the vocals in the same way or try something different,’ Rob reiterates. He sounds frustrated that Gary isn’t paying any attention.

‘Just do it in the same way, mate. But remember, just Mark’s line.’

Rob nods. Mark’s line. Got it. He can do this.

The backing track kicks off again, and for some reason Rob manages to get Mark’s line completely wrong. He tries again, but this time he’s desperately out of tune. He sounds awful.

It’s only one line, but it’s difficult. During one take, Rob’s staring at his lyric sheet so hard that he misses his cue.

Take four. Rob keeps his face down so he won’t see Gary and Mark staring back at him. He unintentionally imagines Gary being proud of him for getting things right, and Rob nails it. He gets the line perfectly right.  

The music stops. Rob looks up again, and he sees Gary looking back at him with pride. It fills Robbie’s chest with warmth.

‘That was brilliant, Rob,’ Gary says. ‘Even better than the first take, that was. D’you wanna come back in and have a listen or d’you reckon you could record the chorus as well? Might be nice if we already had a demo of that.’

Having a demo sounds nice, but it’s only now that Rob realises he’s starving. He hasn’t had something to eat since that morning, and the sandwich he had wasn’t exactly nutritious. He lowers rubs his tummy, suddenly hyperaware of how much it’s rumbling.

‘D’you mind if I have something to eat first, Gaz? I’m absolutely starvin’. Do you guys ever eat in ‘ere? The lounge, I mean.’

This makes Mark sit up straight, immediately alert. This sounds like an opportunity to get Rob and Gary alone!

‘I’ll go out and get something,’ Mark cheerily chimes in before Robbie and Gary can suggest anything. ‘I could get you something from that vegetarian place you like, Gaz. We went there last year, remember? You and I ordered a wrap, I think. You and Rob could finish the second verse while I’m gone.’

In the few seconds that it takes Rob to leave the recording booth and re-join Mark and Gary at the chairs in front of the mixing desk, Gary shoots Mark a terrified look. He lowers his voice. ‘ _Mark. I don’t wanna be alone with him again. We’re finally doing well now that you’re here!_ ’

‘It’s not my problem that you fucking fancy him, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark whispers back, and he faces Rob with an innocent million-dollar smile when their mate returns from the recording. ‘Gaz was just sayin’ he’d like _me_ to get takeout, Rob. There’s a really good place with vegan stuff just around the corner if you’re interested? I could get you some too, you know. I think you’d like their vegan wraps. They’re like regular wraps but healthier, if you’re into that sort of thing.’

Rob thinks he knows the place. He sits down on a chair in front of the mixing desk. ‘D’you mean the one next to the Italian restaurant? I’ve never had food like that before, to be honest, but I’m down if you are, lads.’

Something makes Robbie look towards the door. He usually avoids going out to order food because it generally makes his anxiety and agoraphobia flare up, but he wouldn’t mind trying it today. It’d be a lot better than being stuck in the basement for the rest of the day, anyway.

‘Actually, Markie, I think I fancy heading down there meself, if you don’t mind,’ Rob offers, feeling brave. ‘You’re gonna have to write down what you want, though, cos I’m not sure if I even know what organic food looks like. Is it, like, cucumbers and stuff?’

Mark pouts. There goes his sly plan to give Rob and Gary some private time! ‘But Gary wanted _me_ to go.’

‘D’you know what, Mark, it might be _good_ if Rob went out to get food today,’ Gary pipes in a bit too enthusiastically. As much as he loved recording their first ever song, he wouldn’t mind if Rob was out of his sight for a couple of minutes. ‘We’ll be stuck in New York for a few days yet so it’ll be good if Rob goes out to explore a bit. Get a feel of the city. Cos you’ve not been here much before, have you, Rob?’

Rob shrugs. He has a vague recollection of Take That visiting New York back in the nineties, but he can’t remember much of it now. ‘Not as much as L.A.’

Gary raises his eyebrows at Mark. ‘See? Let Rob go.’

‘He could get lost, Gaz,’ Mark points out.

‘I know he used to be the baby in the band, but Rob’s a grown man now, Mark. It’s just around the corner, anyway. If he gets lost he can give us a call.’

‘Or _you_ could join him.’

Gary’s cheeks flare up. ‘Why would I? Like I said, he’s perfectly capable of going out on his own.’

The conversation has heated up so quickly that it’s as if Gary and Mark have forgotten Robbie is the same room with him. In fact, the lads seem so uncharacteristically annoyed with each other that Rob would almost think they were having an argument. He sees a strange look in Mark’s eyes he doesn’t recognise, and likewise Gary looks positively annoyed with him. What on Earth is going on?

‘Everything all right between you guys?’ Robbie asks. ‘We don’t _have_ to eat if you don’t want to . . .’

‘Don’t be silly, Rob. Of course we’re going to bloody eat,’ Gary says, and it comes out all wrong. Snappish. Angry.

It’s aimed more at Mark than Rob, but the words don’t reach Rob that way. He instantly assumes he must have done something wrong.

Maybe they don’t like his song after all. Maybe they both think he sounded shit. Or worse, maybe he’s getting on the lads’ nerves already. He must do — look at them, they’re basically telling him to fuck off!

Rob feels anger and disappointment wash all over him. He wrongly assumes the boys must not want him to be here for some reason and demonstratively grabs a discarded lyrics sheet before flipping it over. He writes down the boys’ names and leaves an empty space for their food.

‘Mark, your order?’

Mark instantly realises that Rob must assume they’re trying to get rid of him. They’re not, he just wants Rob and Gary to be alone together! ‘Rob, you don’t have to . . .’

‘I needed the fresh air, anyway,’ Rob lies. He gives Gary an angry, disappointed look, then turns to the piece of paper in his hands. ‘Mark, what would you like me to get?’

Poor Mark has no choice but to reluctantly order a veggie wrap with extra lettuce, praying that Rob didn’t get the wrong idea after all. He doesn’t want Rob to think they don’t like him — they do, massively!

Meanwhile, Gary orders something with a lot of avocado. He doesn’t particularly seem to care about the angry look Rob gave him, but then again Gary has spent his entire life pretending like Robbie doesn’t do anything for him.

Rob isn’t sure what _he’ll_ have, but Gary tells him the falafel wraps are particularly tasty. Rob stubbornly responds by telling him that he thinks falafel is the worst food in the world.

With that, Rob gets up from the sofa and haphazardly shoves the boys’ orders into the pocket of his jeans. He still gives Gary and Mark a genial wave before he closing the front door and leaving the studio, but there’s one thing he’s sure of: the vegan take-out is just an excuse to get rid of him.

***

‘That wasn’t very nice, Gaz,’ Mark points out after Rob has closed the front door and left. He sounds upset.  

Gary gives an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. He’s still sat in front of the mixing board, not having moved an inch since Rob finished recording their song. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings or anything, I’d just rather not be alone with him. Not constantly, anyway. Like I said, mate, it’s better when you’re here.’

‘I get that, Gaz, but you can’t just send him away like that,’ Mark sighs. ‘I don’t think he should be alone right now. It’s his _first day_.’

Gary’s ire grows. ‘ _You_ join him then if you don’t want him to be alone, mate.’

‘That’s not what I was tryin’ to do here, Gaz.’

Mark’s voice is soft and composed, but Gary’s isn’t. He feels angry inside, and he doesn’t even know why.

‘Right, cos you want me and Rob to be alone together cos I fucking _fancy_ him, don’t I, Mark?’

Gary feels his cheeks turn red, and the shame of it makes him turn even redder. He averts his gaze and stares at the recording booth in front of him, where Robbie was stood ten minutes ago. Why does Rob make him feel so fucking hot?

‘That’s not what I said, Gaz.’

‘It was. Word for word, that’s what you said.’ Gary dares to look at Mark again, almost challenging him to make more ridiculous accusations. ‘ _Wasn’t_ it, Mark?’

The denial is almost admirable, but Mark’s not going to back down now. Gary can get as angry and annoyed with him as he wants, but Mark isn’t going to.

‘You’re right, I did say that. Cos I saw you _lookin_ ’, Gaz. It’s okay if you still have feelings for him.’

Gary tenses at the idea. He doesn’t want to hear these words, for hearing them makes it real. It makes it hurt.

‘I don’t have _feeling_ s for him, Mark,’ Gary lies, and he knows how wrong it sounds the moment the words leave his mouth. It sounds wrong because it’s not true.

Gary’s fancied Rob forever. From the moment they first went on tour together, Gary wanted Rob to be more than just a colleague. He wanted to become mates and then lovers and then even more than that, but Rob never showed the slightest interest. Rob was cool, and Gary wasn’t. Gary was just the fat guy in the back.

Gary knew he didn’t stand a chance, so he never told Rob anything. Rob never knew. But Mark did. How could he _not_ have? The signs were all there from day one: Gary’s red cheeks whenever Rob talked to him; the fruitless efforts to have a fun day out with him; the averted eyes in the dressing room (and the sly peeks when Rob wasn’t looking); and later, the misplaced envy whenever Robbie took a fan home with him. The only reason no-one else found out is that they were too busy trying to keep the band afloat.

‘Gaz, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ says Mark. He smiles at Gary to coax him into speaking the truth. ‘You know, a lot of artists these days are b—’

‘It’s not that,’ Gary cuts in, horrified; ashamed. They’re not having that discussion. ‘It’s not that, Mark. You know it’s not.’

‘Then what?’

Mark’s words are kinder and gentler than Gary thinks he deserves, and he almost feels bad for not telling Mark the truth. Maybe it _is_ better if he lets it out. Maybe his feelings will disappear once he speaks them out loud. Maybe he’ll one day look back at this day and laugh at himself for ever thinking he could fancy someone like Robbie Williams.

Or not. The truth comes out in waves. Gary can’t stop his voice from shaking, and he keeps staring at the floor because he’s ashamed of his voice and his red cheeks and his words and how bloody horny he is and everything else that’s making him sound like Eros got the better of him. His confession doesn’t even have a beginning; it just starts in the middle somewhere, ripped from the core of his own private tragedy:

‘I thought I’d gotten over him, Mark, I really did, but then — then he fucking _looks_ at me, and — and I just don’t know anymore. I fucking hate it. It’s like I’m nineteen again, he makes me feel so bloody hot inside. And it does my fucking head in because all I wanna do is write a great record, but I can’t when all I can think about is how bloody terrified Rob looks when he’s with me. It’s like he doesn’t even want to _be_ here.’

Mark makes a sympathetic face. He thinks he knows where Gary’s coming from. ‘Have you ever told him?’

Gary shakes his head.

‘Do you _want_ to tell him?’

Gary doesn’t answer straight away. It’s only now that he realises he’s never told anyone before, not even Howard. It makes him feel dirty, like Rob’s someone he’s been spying on. It feels intrusive to even _think_ about Rob like that, let alone do something about it.

‘I think it’s better if he doesn’t know, mate,’ he says.

Mark doesn’t see it like that. ‘Why? He might like you back, you know.’

Gary scoffs. _Mocking_. ‘Rob doesn’t _like_ me, Mark. Look at him, he’s like a bloody work of art.’

‘And _you’re_ not?’

‘Compared to him? He’s Robbie Williams, mate. He can have anyone he wants.’

‘That person could be you . . .’

‘It’s really not that simple, Mark.’

‘It _can_ be. I mean, are you seriously going to spend the next six months pretendin’ he means nothing to you? Cos that wouldn’t be fair to either of you. You have to _try_ , at least. Just try and see what’ll happen.’

Gary scoffs. ‘Mark, mate, I love you, but this isn’t some bloody fairy tale. Like I said, I asked Rob back in the band cos I want to get a great record out, not to fucking ogle at him. If that means I have to pretend that I don’t like him — then yeah, that’s what I’m gonna do. It’s what I was doing till _you_ showed up, anyway.’

‘Really?’ Mark crosses his arms. He narrows his eyes. ‘I must have imagined it when you tried to touch Rob’s leg in the lounge, then.’

Gary turns scarlet. Remembering the touch, he starts stammering. He tries to talk his way out of it. ‘I swear to God, Mark, I wasn’t trying to do anything funny. I was just being supportive, is all.’

‘ _Hm._ So the squeeze you gave ‘im next was just you bein’ “supportive” too, wasn’t it?’

This final jibe renders Gary utterly speechless, and Mark’s lips curl into a smug grin. With just that one comment, their entire relationship changes. Suddenly, Mark owns the keys to Gary’s biggest ever secret – him loving Rob.

Mark could misuse Gary’s secret if he wished, but Mark isn’t like that. Mark Owen is kind, warm, and caring, and the one person brave enough to push the domino that sets this entire journey in motion.

‘You’re never going to let this go, are you, Mark?’

Mark grins. He puts on his trilby and heads back to the lounge before giving Gary’s shoulder a warm, amicable squeeze. ‘Never, Mr. Barlow.’

 

TUESDAY - SEPTEMBER 2009 – NEW YORK – ELECTRIC LADY STUDIOS

The leftovers and wrappers from yesterday’s vegan brunch are still on the kitchen sink, and a tired Mark takes the time to clean it all up before the camera crew for the documentary arrive at nine. He can abide Gary leaving his coffee cup on the floor at the Rabbit’s Hutch, but things are different here. This place is sacred, and he’ll gladly put in the extra effort to keep it that way — especially with Robbie coming back to join them later.

Rob wasn’t angry at Mark and Gary when he returned to the studio with their food and a single cup of coffee yesterday, but he wasn’t in a good mood either. The wraps he had bought were cold as though he had taken a detour to get back to the studio, and the only person he had bothered buying a drink for was himself.

Sensing that Rob was still a little upset following their preventable ‘who’s going to get take-out?’ argument, Mark quickly cleared the air by promising Rob that they _really_ hadn’t sent him away because they hated him. Following Mark’s lead, Gary reluctantly apologised for snapping at everyone.

‘I’m sorry if I made you feel like I wanted to get rid of you earlier,’ Gary had mumbled at Rob. ‘The next time we’re going to get take-out together.’

Rob really didn’t know how to respond to that, so he bit a big chunk off his wrap and pretended to be very interested in his cup of coffee.

With their food-related misunderstanding more or less out of the way, the boys spent another two hours working on their brand new song until Robbie dozed off in the middle of a writing session. Gary quickly decided to wrap things up after that, and at half seven Rob was already back in his hotel, lightyears away from his bandmates. He fell asleep almost immediately.  

Mark hasn’t heard anything from Rob since, but he can’t say he blames him. Recording an album is an intense process, and it’s probably even harder when you’re still on the outside looking in like Rob. He may not new to this, but he is in _this_ band. It could take days or weeks or even months before Robbie gets used to being in a boy band again.

As with most things, Mark has a theory about what might make Robbie feel better. He’s absolutely convinced that being in an inviting studio does wonders for the soul, so makes another round through the studio before putting his feet up. He puts on nice music. He straightens the gold records on the wall. He plumps up the cushions on the sofas so they look bigger and softer. He gets rid of the empty cup of tea Gary left there last time.

Within a few seconds, things feel better already. The studio looks clean. Tidy. Perhaps if their surroundings look somewhat inviting, Rob will feel more tempted to share his songs with them.

Minutes pass. The sleeplessness of the previous night catches up with him, and Mark dozes off on the red leather sofa, content and undisturbed. He dreams of a field of flowers as far as the eye can see, with violets and daisies and roses and tulips all mixed up in a charming palette of pastels and watercolours. Mark finds himself thinking that the field looks beautiful. 

Mark treads the field carefully, like a child. He doesn’t want to damage a single flower. He’s barefoot, and a gentle breeze makes his hair move in the wind. An atypical boy band song plays in the background; joyous, whimsical; Take That at their best.

The flower field levels out into an endless hill with the odd daisy here and there, and Mark thinks he can already taste the song on his tongue. He sees its lyrics spread out across the turquoise sky. They’re about forgiveness and regret: everything Mark wants to write about, but can’t.

He keeps going. The hill becomes steeper. The daisies disappear, but the song doesn’t. Mark tries to get to the song as the real-life version of himself reaches for his notebook in his sleep. He needs to get this down.

Mark becomes desperate. He quickens his pace and treads on a single white flower. He reaches for the lyrics in the sky with his open hand, and starts, terribly, when his notebook falls on the floor with a loud _thud_ and wakes him up.

When Mark opens his eyes again, he’s back in the lobby with Gary standing over him like a ghost in very tight jeans. Mark was so far gone that he hadn’t heard him come in.

‘You all right, mate?’

Gary gives Mark a wary look. Gary’s still wearing his coat, and he’s holding his precious silver laptop in one hand. He just got here. Mark, on the other hand, still seems to be wearing his outfit from the previous day: a fashionable dress shirt with a black cardigan on top. His preferred fashion accessory, his black trilby, lies in his lap.

‘Hang on, Mark, did you sleep in here?’

Mark sits up and straightens his shirt before rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It does not seem to bother him that Gary caught him in the middle of a nap. ‘I think Susan would’ve sent me out if I had, to be honest.’

Susan is the nice receptionist on the ground floor who always lets the boys into Studio 1. Jay fancies her, but then again Jason thinks almost everyone is beautiful.

‘So what are you doing here having a kip, then?’ Gary asks. He takes off his coat, drapes it over a chair, and sits on the opposite sofa so he can have a good look at Mark. He does look a little tired, bless him. ‘Did you not sleep or what?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘Not really. But I did come up with two new songs, so, you know, things could be worse . . .’

Gary utters a sound of understanding. ‘Yesterday’s session keeping you up?’

‘Yeah. I must have stayed up till two last night, just singing melodies into me Dictaphone. I haven’t felt that inspired for a really long time.’

‘I know how you feel, mate,’ Gary sighs. ‘I kept thinkin’ about the song we wrote. It’s a good one, innit? I don’t think I slept till twelve, I still had so much energy. I kinda felt like texting you and Rob to have a chat about it, actually, but then I remembered how tired he was.’

Mark has that faraway look on his face that always sports when he’s thinking about something particularly troubling. ‘He _was_ tired, wasn’t he? I hope he’s still comin’ in today.’

Gary frowns. ‘Why wouldn’t he? You don’t think he’s still upset about the whole wrap thing, don’t you?’

‘What rap? Are we rappin’ on this record?’

‘I mean —’ Gary sighs, then laughs. ‘Never mind. Why would Rob not wanna come in today?’

Mark’s flummoxed by Gary’s response. ‘The cameras are arrivin’ today, aren’t they? You know, for the _documentary_?’

Gary feels a nervous pang in his chest. _The documentary_. He’d forgotten about that!

‘ _Fuck_. I did wonder why the study looked so tidy this morning, it’s never this clean.’ Gary unconsciously runs a hand through his hair and looks down at his chest. His tight white t-shirt shows off the body he’s been training for, but he can still see his belly from up here. ‘I wish I’d put on something else now.’

‘I think what we’re wearin’ is the least of our worries when it comes to this documentary, Gaz. Unless you’re worried that Rob won’t like you in that outfit . . .’

It’s another unexpected reminder that hits Gary like a blow to the head. Mark _knows_. He knows!

The reminder makes Gary achingly aware of his feelings, and he starts stumbling over his sentences, like he’s bloody terrified of the ghosts in the room finding out.

‘You can’t just say stuff like that, Mark!’ He conspiratorially looks over his shoulder, half expecting someone to be standing there with a camera and a microphone already. ‘What if the camera crew were here? They’d have a bloody field day!’

Mark rolls his eyes. Gary’s bloody infuriating when it comes to love. ‘They’re _not_ , Gaz. And even if they were, I’m not gonna say anything you don’t want me to. I wouldn’t do that to you. But just because _you’re_ still in denial doesn’t mean I’m going to be too. I know that having these feelings isn’t easy, but I can’t just sit here and pretend that you’re not going through this. I can’t do that. I won’t, cos I only want what’s best for you. For both of you.’

Gary crosses his arms. He puts up his walls. ‘That’s all very admirable, Mark, but what if what’s best for me isn’t what’s best for the band? Have you ever thought about that? This could _end_ the band if someone ever finds out.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

Here, Mark slowly reaches for his packet of Marlboro on the table and lights up a cigarette. He knows Gary hates it when he smokes, but that’s not why he’s doing it; he’s doing it because he needs to feel calm when he’s talking about this crap. This matters to _him_ too.

‘Look, Gaz. I know you probably think you don’t deserve Rob, but you do, you know. You have, for years. But the only way you’re gonna get anywhere is if you tell ‘im or — I don’t know, seduce him or something.’

Gary feels himself flare up at Mark’s words. ‘ _Seduce_ him? I don’t wanna _seduce_ him!’

‘Really? So you’re not just wearin’ those jeans cos you wanna look good? And that shirt . . .’

Gary looks down at his clothes, mortified. He turns as red as the sofa he’s sitting on. ‘I’m only wearing these jeans because me other pair had chocolate on them yesterday!’

‘You don’t _eat_ chocolate, though, do you, Mr. Barlow?’ A statement, not an accusation.

‘Christ, Mark. Are you listening to yourself? I don’t wanna seduce anyone.’

‘Apart from Rob, then.’

Gary’s answer comes too quickly. ‘Well, _yes_. I mean — _no_. God, no. Christ.’

Gary regrets his words immediately. He tries to talk his way out of it, but in the end all he can manage is an exasperated ‘Good grief’ and a series of expletives. He’s been found out. Of _course_ he wants to look good.

‘Okay, yeah, you’re right, Mark,’ Gary sighs. He makes a defeated gesture with his arms. ‘I’m wearing these jeans cos they make me bum look good. Happy now?’

‘Very happy, Mr. Barlow.’

Gary’s too ashamed to come up with a clever reply. He fumbles with the cushions on his sofa, struggling to understand how he’s feeling. He feels guilty and ashamed, but also frustrated. Angry. He doesn’t _want_ Mark to know. He doesn’t _want_ Mark to make it his special pet project. But he has, and that’s perhaps the most frustrating thing of all. Who does Mark think he is that he can just barge in on his feelings like that?

‘Tell me one thing, though, Mark,’ Gary says. ‘Why’d you care so much? Why do you want me and Rob to get together so badly?’

Mark shrugs and takes another drag of his cigarette. He blows out the smoke into the empty air of the studio, and he hates himself for thinking how beautiful it looks. Then the smoke fades, and the only remaining beauty in the studio is the bud of a romance that Mark alone thinks he can see.

‘You’re my mate, Gaz. I want you to be happy, and I’m convinced that you’ll be even happier if you ended up with Rob.’

‘But that’s the thing, Mark. I _am_ happy. I mean, look at me. I have a good life. I’m healthy. I’m still out there, performing on some of the biggest stages of me career. Why should I bother with me love life as well?’

Mark says nothing for a while. Then he takes a final drag and stubs out his cigarette.

‘I just don’t want you to mess things up like we used to in the nineties. We had a million chances to find love and happiness back then, but we never — we never did because we were too busy havin’ fun. The loves of our lives could have been right in front of us, but we never actually bothered to look and take things slow. If we’re gonna be like that the second time round, then why bother, you know? I just don’t think it’s worth it.’

There’s a brief moment when Mark reflects on his own words. He’s uttered everything with his usual kindness, but there’s also a hint of genuine fear there; of being terrified that Gary will realise what he truly wants in life far too late. He doesn’t want Gary to spend another ten years regretting everything he’s ever done.

‘I know you think our comeback has been all about chart hits and performing, Gaz, but I don’t think it’s ever been about that at all. It’s about us growing up and — and catching up on the things we’ve never talked about. This reunion is our chance to make things right for once and for all. That includes fixing whatever’s going on between you and Rob.’

The stubbornness fades. Gary thinks he can make some sense of what Mark’s saying. If Gary had actually bothered to tell Rob about how he felt, the band might never have split up. He would never have ended up in his Cheshire mansion, all alone and desperate to be touched. He would never have been relegated to writing B-sides for artists he’d never met, and Robbie might have loved him after all. His life would have been completely different.

Gary cheers up a little. Maybe Mark’s right, maybe he’s wrong to deny this. Maybe he _should_ tell Rob, eventually. It could be tomorrow or next week or when this album era has long come to an end, but he should _tell_ him, one day.

After all, does Gary really want to spend the next six months avoiding Robbie’s eye? Does he really want to be hard on Rob when he’d like to be nothing but? No, he doesn’t. Gary wants to enjoy being with Rob more than anything. He can keep on pretending to be emotionless and cold, but nothing good will ever come from that. Nothing at all.

The realisation hits Gary like an epiphany. He doesn’t know how Mark’s done it, but Gary suddenly feels like he’s seeing his issues with a completely different pair of eyes. He’s not even sure if it’s still an “issue” at all — it’s just a lovely little obstacle that he can’t wait to get his teeth into. Maybe he _does_ want Rob to know.

‘D’you know what, mate, I don’t know how you’ve managed it, but think I actually feel like doing something about me feelings now,’ Gary says slowly, like he doesn’t want the words to sink in and take hold immediately. ‘I don’t know _what_ I’m gonna do, all right, but you could be right about this, Mark, maybe — Christ, maybe I _have_ spent too much time not taking any chances. Not that I’m gonna tell Rob immediately, but . . . I don’t know, mate, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to flirt with him a little. Not that I remember how, mind.’

Mark’s face breaks out into a pleased smile. He can’t believe Gary’s actually agreeing to this! ‘Really? So you’re gonna do something about your feelings?’

‘Guess so, yeah. But only if you promise you won’t tell Rob yourself.’

‘I won’t, Gaz. That’s _your_ job,’ Mark promises. He’s still grinning; this is the best thing ever! ‘But I still think he might like you back, you know. I can feel it. He did look a bit red when you touched ‘im yesterday.’

Gary flushes. ‘Now, Mark, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. We don’t even know if I’m his type.’

‘I could ask him before he heads back on his own promo tour next month?’

Gary had almost forgotten about that. Still a solo artist, Rob is meant to promote his brand new solo album in October. ‘You’re going to ask him if I’m his type?’

‘Well, I’d word it a bit differently, wouldn’t I?’

Gary wants to ask Mark how he’s ever going to ask Robbie such an awkward question, but he never gets the chance. The doorbell rings, and a chain of events is put in motion so suddenly that it’s hard to keep up.

The camera crew arrives first. They’re two men in their late twenties who have recently graduated from art school, and the Take That documentary is one of their first ever projects together. While Gary retreats to the kitchen to make tea for the new arrivals, Mark keeps himself busy by asking the two men a million questions about what it’s like to be professional photographers.

By the time the water finishes boiling, the doorbell rings for the second time. This time, it’s Howard and Jason who come and join them. Sadly, the cameramen set up their equipment too late to catch Mark and Gary giving their bandmates warm, generous hugs that only friends are capable of.

Filming Howard and Jason’s entrance would have been a great shot, but not as great as the one that follows ten minutes later. The doorbell rings again, and this time they’re ready. Robbie Williams swaggers into the lounge with big sunglasses on his face, and the cameramen capture it all _perfectly_ , from the hugs to the smiles to the pats on the back.

Indeed, the cameramen capture everything — everything apart from the skip that Gary’s heart makes when he embraces Robbie for far longer than he should.

Gary lets go of Rob’s obscenely warm body the moment he catches Mark cocking his eyebrow at him, but the damage is already done: Gary’s gone extremely red in the face, and even Rob looks slightly taken aback. What’s Gary doing, suddenly hugging him with so much affection, and why did he enjoy it so?

Rob tries to ignore the odd feeling that Gary’s hug stirred up inside. Mark’s hug was just as good. _And_ Howard’s.

Instead, Rob patiently takes the time to take everything in. There’s Mark, as excited as a child; Howard, still as funny as Rob remembers; and then Jay, who looks even more handsome than he already did. Rob looks at all of them, and he knows they’re all thinking the same thing: this is special. Being here gives him tingles and butterflies and other flutters in the pit of his stomach that feel a lot like love, and he no longer regrets coming here. This will save him. He knows that now.

Then Rob he looks at Gary again, and the feeling multiplies. The butterflies get better. Or worse. It’s like Gary’s eyes have a different shade to them this morning, like they’re  brighter, somehow. _Kinder_. Rob tells himself it must be because the entire band is here at last, but he cherishes the look anyway. It’s a lot better than thinking the boys deliberately sent him out for take-out.

Time passes strangely as Rob’s eyes land on the two cameramen. They don’t make him feel more nervous, but they don’t make him feel at ease either; out of body, more like — like he’s not really here. He can vaguely make out Mark’s voice telling him that the camera crew just there to observe, but Rob’s eyes remain fixed on the camera lens. He stares at it until Dougie and Jason decide to sit down and he’s suddenly on the sofa too, sitting down but not feeling earthed at all.

There’s suddenly so much going on that Rob feels like he’s floating. His mind is elsewhere but in New York, and who can blame him when he’s here with Take That and cameras and _so_ much else that he can’t wrap his head around, like Gary’s tight jeans or Gary’s knee touching his own?

It’s overwhelming. Rob’s so nervous and _afraid_ that he has no idea what’s going on anymore. He can’t even make out the song that the lads are suddenly playing for him. It’s like the presence of the camera crew has turned him back into the scared, anxious man who’d rather stay indoors.

Mark’s the first person Rob dares look at again, and he’s met with such reassuring smile that it ships his fear back to a different universe. _He’s okay. This is okay_.

Rob focusses, and he re-enters the conversation when his bandmates seem to be discussing something Gary just played them.

‘What do you think?’ This comes from Gary himself.

‘I can’t believe you came up with that in a single morning, Gaz!’ It’s Jay. He sounds proud. Something good must have happened, but Rob can’t remember what. ‘You’re putting us out of a job ‘ere!’

‘I agree with Jay, Gaz. It’s really good.’ Howard. He’s listening to something; his face is edged with concentration. ‘What’s it about?’

The room slowly comes back into focus. Rob thinks he can hear an instrumental slowly fading out in the background, and Gary speaking next. ‘God, that’s a good question, Dougie. Did we talk about what the lyrics were about? I think you had a general idea, didn’t you, Rob?’

Rob’s vaguely aware of Gary touching his arm with his fingertips, and he’s officially back in the room. They’re all sitting on the red leather sofas in the lounge, and everyone’s staring at him — including the cameramen with their big cameras and microphones. He can’t remember getting there.

‘ _Err_ ,’ Rob stammers, nervous to admit he’d zoned out _again_. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he didn’t even notice that they were listening to anything. ‘Help me out ‘ere, Gaz. What song are we talking about?’

‘The song we just played, Rob,’ Gary reminds him. ‘You know, the one the three of us wrote yesterday. _Standing on the edge of forever_? That’s not gonna be the title, by the way,’ he tells Howard and Jason.

‘Would be a great album title, though,’ Howard says.

‘Bit wordy,’ says Mark, who’s already jotted down a few titles of his own. There’s one album title in particular he has in mind, but he’s going to wait for the others to catch on.

‘Anyway, we were discussing that,’ Gary nods.

‘Right.’ Colour rushes into Rob’s cheeks. He remembers now. They were listening to their brand new song. ‘What is it you’d like me to say about it, exactly?’  

‘We were just wondering what the song is about,’ says Jason. ‘Lyrically.’

‘Dunno. Water, I guess.’

Howard lets out an uncertain laugh, but the others aren’t laughing. They were expecting a serious, honest answer — in other words, the type of answer Robbie can’t give them because he wrote the lyrics in a single, transcendent moment that he can’t remember.

When Robbie wrote the lyrics yesterday, the only thing he felt was comfort and calm, like he was meditating and the world had floated away from him. It felt fucking amazing, and the words flowed out of him before he could stop them. There wasn’t a single meaning attached to them, or maybe there was; for a single moment, Robbie felt no nerves or fears or anxieties, just happiness; happy to be amongst two men he once shared a life with.

Rob tries to put it into words without sounding like he was on drugs when he wrote the song. It’s a lot easier to write lyrics than to talk about them, which is why Rob never does it.

‘In all seriousness, the lyrics just came out, to be honest. They just happened. I wasn’t really aiming at anythin’ in particular. Then again, I guess if you meticulously decided to dissect every single lyric and give them a meaning that isn’t really there, you _could_ say I wrote them with the band in mind. Yeah. Maybe it’s about that. Or not. It doesn’t _have_ to be about Take That. That’s probably a little bit egoistic, anyway.’

‘No, I thought it was about the band too,’ Gary nods, and not just because he wants to please Rob by agreeing with him. ‘This has our story all over it, this song does. And it _should_ , really. We can’t get back together and _not_ write about us, can we? It wouldn’t be right, that wouldn’t.’

‘I agree,’ Mark nods. ‘This song is about us.’

‘Is our shared story where we’re taking this album conceptually, then?’ asks Jason, who likes having something to work towards.

‘Maybe. It’s not something _I’ve_ really thought of yet, to be honest,’ Gary admits. He looks at Rob, who’s looking a bit quizzical, and Gary figures he should probably explain how Take That usually go about writing their albums. ‘When we started working on _The Circus_ in 2008 we already had a vague idea of what we wanted the record to sound like before we’d even written anything. We wanted to sound it like a — what’s the word you used at the time, Mark?’

‘A street party,’ says Mark, remembering those sessions well. ‘We wanted to write a happy album.’

‘That’s it, a street party,’ Gary says. ‘It was only a few weeks later that Howard came up with the idea of basing the tour on a travelling circus, and that’s when it all clicked really. We never looked back. But with _this_ tour? With the album we’re working on now? God knows. We could take it anywhere, really. It doesn’t just have to be about us.’

Howard nudges Jay’s arm. ‘You said there was a few current events you wanted to write about, didn’t you, Jay?’

Jay nods. ‘I did, yeah. Don’t get me wrong, lads, I love what we do, but if it’s going to be the five of us then we might as well take a leap in the dark conceptually, if you know what I mean. In terms of lyrics, there are a lot of areas I don’t think any of us have explored yet, like what we’re all doin’ to this planet of ours.’

Jason looks at Rob, and the camera moves to capture Rob’s reaction. It makes Rob feel sick to his stomach.

‘Then again, I like what Robbie’s previous songwriting experience might bring to the table too,’ Jason goes on, addressing Robbie in particular. ‘You’re usually very unequivocal and blunt in your songs, which I think Take That could still need a bit more of. You know what I mean? I’d love it if we wrote about our formative years the way they actually _were_ instead of embellishing it with a lot of metaphors about how much we enjoyed ourselves. Which, you know, I did — _we_ did —’  

‘But it wouldn’t be entirely true,’ Howard agrees.

‘Indeed. Robbie’s way of writing would really lend itself to more honesty in our work, I think.’

Robbie doesn’t acknowledge Jay’s compliment. He just stares at the cameras and wishes they’d explode.

‘See, that’s what I like about the song you three wrote,’ Howard nods, agreeing with Jay. ‘It’s honest and different. Like you just said, if we’re not going to write about how we used to feel the first time round then why bother? Our supporters know us better than that, don’t they?’

Gary looks round at the group. He doesn’t usually like making decisions about songs this early in the process, but this track is too good to give up. ‘So we all agree, then? This song’s a keeper?’

Mark, Howard and Jason all bob their heads in agreement, and Rob mumbles a late reply when Gary touches his arm _again_. He’s still fixated on the cameras.

A few minutes later, the lads are all listening to their demo of _The Flood_ to fill in the blanks together. Gary’s grabbed his thin silver laptop to edit parts of the backing track. Howard’s suggesting places where the BVs should go. Mark’s already thinking about the music video. At the other end of the room, Jay’s been given the task of going over the lyrics they already have. It’s as if being together has fired them up with unstoppable creativity.

Meanwhile, Rob’s not feeling creative at all. Yesterday, his lyrics about the band came to him like a dream; today, nothing’s coming to him at all. It’s like his mind has gone blank, but why? He feels at ease. Gary’s treating him better. He’s not been sent away to get take-out yet. Everyone’s here, and it’s the best thing ever because who would have thought that the original Take That would ever get back together?

Then Rob’s eyes land on the cameras again, and his heart stops in his throat.

They’re filming him. They pick up on every single frown and gesture, and Rob has to pretend that he’s writing something down when one of the cameras move in for an unflattering close-up. He knows the men won’t interfere with their writing process, but he still feels like any moment now they’re going to ask him what he’s doing. What is he thinking? What is he writing? What are his lyrics about? Fuck knows. He’s not thinking anything, he just feels bloody terrified.

Rob wants to go home and hide. He wants to close the shutters in his bedroom and not let the daylight in, but he knows it doesn’t work that way. The cameras are here to stay. They’ll follow his every move until Robbie excuses himself and gets up from the sofa, lost and confused. The others are too lost in their own world of songwriting and creativity to notice him leaving.

Five minutes later, Robbie Williams stumbles into the harsh daylight of a cold New York spring. He suddenly finds himself on the rooftop of the studio, and he has no idea how he ever got there. He has no recollection of moving his legs up the stairs. The only thing he knows for certain is that he’s tired and sweating and bloody scared and that the pavement looks scarily inviting from up here.

He’s the only person there. A balustrade separates the roof from certain death, and Rob leans on it to survey the streets below. He’s shaking. He tries to count the taxi cabs below to steady his breath, but they move to fast for his eyes to keep up with. They just manoeuvre up and down the city streets at break-neck speeds, like disgusting yellow insects that Robbie wants to step on.

Robbie feels somewhat calmer breathing in the cold city air, but not better. He knows he can’t stay here forever — one moment now, he has to go back down and face the others and pretend he’s okay. He’s not. How _can_ he be, with two cameras staring back at him and Gary suddenly treating him more kindly than Rob thinks he deserves? He doesn’t know how to deal with that shit. He never did. He just wants to disappear.

The feeling doesn’t fade. Something’s filled Rob with all-consuming _dread_ , and he has no idea what it is or where it’s come from.

Rob’s used to feeling anxious before leaving his house or going on stage, but he’s never felt it when surrounded by mates. Usually, his friends keep his demons at bay; today, it’s as if his demons have become his friends again.

Why, though? It’s not as if Robbie’s never seen a camera before. He grew up being in front of one. From the age of sixteen, the only constants in Robbie Williams’ life were the fans on the road and the cameras that followed him around. Learning how to work a camera fast became far more important than learning how cook or do the dishes, and all the practice paid off; by the time Robbie went solo, he could flirt with a camera better than anyone.

And yet he feels terrified. Right now, all the camera has to do is zoom in on his face or his hands or the smile his face makes when he thinks Gary isn’t looking at him, and he’s taken over by petrifying nausea. He’s never felt anything like it.

Rob tries not to think about it. Over the next couple of minutes, he just stares, hard, at the streets below him like a visual mantra to channel out the fear.

From up here, Robbie can see the predictable twists and turns of New York in perfect, minuscule detail. He can see yellow taxi cabs and cars. He sees a woman with a _Victoria’s Secret_ tote bag clutched in their hands. He sees tourists who find art and beauty in crowded street corners and street signs. He sees a cute dog outside a pizza joint, reminding him of his own dogs he left at home.  

If Rob looks farther beyond, Rob can see green fire escapes zigzagging down the apartments’ green walls. Rob’s eyes follow the meandering steps of one of the green staircases down to street level, and he thinks he can see Jay’s slender, handsome silhouette enter a café next door.

Seeing Jason reminds Rob of what he’s here for, and he feels guilt wash all over him. Should he really have left the lads on their own like that? Should he have stayed? Should he not have come in at all today? What if the others have already finished the song he wrote? What will be the point of him being here then?

He doesn’t even know what time it is. He could have been standing on this rooftop for an hour for all he knows. After all, does Jay walking into that café downstairs not mean that the lads have taken a break? They must have done. They probably _have_ finished the song he wrote, without him.

Still — Rob has no intentions of going back. If he does, he’ll have to explain why he left and how he’s feeling, and he doesn’t know if he can do that. He doesn’t know if he can do anything at all with Gary Barlow looking at him with those odd green eyes that Robbie still can’t read.

Exiting the building down the fire escape suddenly seems like an attractive prospect, but Rob stays where he is. He rests his red, cold hands on the balustrade in front of him until his heart slows down and he’ll no longer feel guilty or scared.

It takes a while. Minutes pass without his heart changing in rhythm. He watches the street below him to catch another glimpse of a tall, handsome bandmate, but the only Take Thatter Robbie sees is Gary joining him on the rooftop.

‘Good view, innit? I used to come here loads last year.’

Rob hadn’t heard Gary coming. He offers Rob a shy, knowing smile, and something about that smile makes Rob wrap his hands around the balustrade tighter, whitening his knuckles. He feels light in the head again, and he foolishly blames it on Gary reminding him of the cameras that are down in the studio.

Gary doesn’t ask Rob how he’s doing, at first. Like a fish in water, he leans his arms on the metal balustrade, completely at ease with the bar being the only thing that’s separating him from the ground.

‘You know that song we wrote yesterday?  Mark came up with the most _gorgeous_ bridge just now. I mean, it’s fucking brilliant, Rob. Trust me, you’d love it. Absolutely love it. I was hoping to record it meself, but the others were all hoping _you’d_ do it!’ Then Gary’s face sobers. He gives Robbie the most reassuring smile he can manage. ‘You don’t _want_ to go back and record, though, do you, Rob? You’re finding this difficult.’

Rob doesn’t say anything. He just nods.   

‘Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter why,’ Robbie mumbles in his best efforts to sound stubborn and moody, like a teenager who refuses to share his feelings. ‘You wouldn’t understand, anyway.’

‘Try me, Rob. I’ve been in this industry for longer than you, you know!’

‘Only cos you’re so much older!’ Robbie laughs in spite of himself.

‘Only by four years . . .’

‘A _century_ when you’re sixteen.’

Gary chuckles. ‘Fair enough.’

They don’t speak for another minute. The stubborn man in Rob doesn’t want to share his thoughts with Gary at all, but something makes him do it anyway. The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

‘I’m just fucking scared, Gaz. Really, really scared. People think that just because you’re Robbie bloody Williams you’re supposed to feel fucking high all the time, but I don’t feel high at all. I just feel scared. And it’s not _you_ guys —’

‘It’s the cameras,’ Gary reiterates. ‘You’re not used to them anymore.’

‘Yeah. I know that sounds stupid.’

‘No, I understand.’ Gary privately thinks back to his own years of wilderness, when the only song he put to his name was a B-side for an artist no-one knew. He was terrified of being in front of a camera then too. ‘I understand more than you know.’

Robbie looks up. He does his best to hide his surprise. ‘Wait, you get nervous too?’

‘Not anymore. I used to, though, back when the band came back. I mean, I hadn’t been in front of a camera for _years_ before the comeback. I’d just spend me days eating and smoking spliffs and feeling sorry for meself cos I wasn’t famous anymore. Some weeks I was so far gone that I wouldn’t even leave me house.’

‘You never left your house?’ Robbie asks, as if he can’t quite believe that Gary Barlow knows what shutting himself off is like. ‘I mean, _you_?’

‘Yeah. I just . . . sat there all day, absolutely terrified. It’s like I’d talked meself into believing the outside world was me worst enemy. Which it wasn’t, but —’

‘Your subconscious made you believe you it was,’ says Rob, understanding.

‘Yeah.’

Robbie coughs a dry, bitter laugh. ‘It sucks, doesn’t it? Anxiety? Fucking does me head in.’

‘Tell me about it, mate. When we decided to do Take That documentary me anxiety was so terrible that I completely shut myself off, at first. I didn’t wanna do it at all. I just kept thinking, what if I look like a total idiot? What if me doing the documentary will just remind people of how unsuccessful I used to be? I just wanted everyone to leave me alone.’

Gary takes a deep breath to steady his heartbeat. This isn’t a brand new story, but telling Robbie Williams is something else because he knows it might be the first thing the two of them have in common. In fact, it might just be the first proper conversation they’ve ever had, and the first time Robbie’s ever consciously wanted to look Gary in the eye. Something about Gary’s unexpected honesty has earthed him right to the ground.

‘Look, Rob —’ Gary exhales. He tries to voice his thoughts in a way that will make Rob feel better. ‘I’m not sayin’ that our situations are in any way the same, all right, but I think I know what it’s like to be scared about being in a studio. There were years when I didn’t even _sing_ anymore, let alone perform. So if you ever you wanna get away from it all then that’s absolutely _fine_ , mate — we just want a heads-up, is all. As much as we all really wanna be with you, we don’t wanna have to worry about you.’

In a stupid moment of bravery, Gary puts his hand on the small of Rob’s back. It’s a small sign of comfort, of telling Rob that it’s all right and that he’s there for him and that it’s okay if he’s nervous, but there’s more to it, too. The gesture makes Rob’s stomach turn inside out, and he’s too strangely fond of Gary’s hand on his back to tell him to stop. It’s warm and soft and just that bit wrong because why does Rob suddenly want Gary to move his hand lower down? It doesn’t make sense.

Thankfully, Gary doesn’t notice the questions on Robbie’s mind. He keeps talking, hell-bent on making Robbie feel like he matters in this process.

‘I know I probably come across like I only care about this record, but I don’t, all right, Rob?’ Gary says. ‘I care about all of you, and I hope the others do too cos if we’re all gonna go into these sessions not feeling fucking comfortable with other then we might as well go home. I don’t wanna release an album where everyone just phoned everything in because they were too afraid to say anything. That’s what we did in the _nineties_ , not this time round. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like I was trying to send you out yesterday, cos I wasn’t. I really wasn’t, mate.’

‘That’s funny, that’s what Mark said too,’ Rob laughs, remembering what Mark told him yesterday.

‘Which part?’

‘All of it. About you not just carin’ about the music. I thought he was just sayin’ that to make me feel better at first, but I guess he must have meant it.’

Gary chuckles. Trust Mark to deploy his matchmaker tactics on the both of them!

‘Mark talked to you too, eh?’

Rob nods almost imperceptibly. ‘Yeah. He told me you care about us. About me. I think he politely tried to tell me that I was bein’ a dick to you yesterday.’

‘Did he, now? Interesting, that _._ ’

‘What’d Mark tell _you_ then?’

Gary lets out a nervous laugh. He puts both hands back on the balustrade to steady himself, but he still thinks he can feel the texture of Rob’s shirt underneath his palms.

‘The usual, really. Said I had to be more honest. So that’s what I’m gonna do, Rob. I’m gonna be honest. And I don’t just mean I’m gonna tell you when I don’t like a certain lyric, cos I’m gonna do that anyway. I mean that I’m gonna be more honest about myself too.’

Gary looks Rob in the eye then, and he knows they’re already at a better place than they ever were before. He doesn’t know if it’s the talk that did it or Gary touching Robbie’s back, but something in the way they look at each other has changed. There’s more warmth in their eyes, like all they needed to grow closer was a single chat on a rooftop.

‘I like the sound of that, Gaz,’ Rob says, finding himself smiling. ‘Being honest. I can do that too. Yeah.’

‘Good!’ Gary hazards the question he’s been meaning to ask since he got here. He doesn’t want to force Robbie into coming back down, but he’s dying to show him the lyrics he and the others wrote. ‘You ready to come and join us then? You could have a look at the bridge Mark wrote, if you want. He says he won’t go through with the lyrics till you personally approve of them.’

The latter is very flattering, but it doesn’t quite do the trick in tempting Robbie back down. ‘I think I’ll stay here for a bit longer, if you don’t mind, Gaz. Five minutes, that’s all. Just need to get rid of me nerves. And I usually come up with better ideas when I’m not sat indoors, anyway.’

The answer is disappointing, but not entirely unsurprising.

‘All right, five minutes,’ Gary acquiesces. ‘But not a minute more, all right — if you’re not back by the time Jay comes back with lunch I’m gonna record Mark’s bridge on me own.’

‘Five minutes, got it.’

Gary almost takes this as his cue to leave, but then he remembers something the lads discussed while Rob was away.

‘Before I forget, we were all wonderin’ if you were interested in playing footie with us on Friday,’ Gary says. ‘It’s nothing serious, just football and a drink. There’s an empty football field a few miles from here that we sometimes use to blow off steam after a particularly long writing session. What do you think? We try to play football at least once a week while we’re here.’

Robbie loves football, so he doesn’t have to think about his answer for very long. ‘I’d love that, Gaz. Thanks for inviting me.’

‘ _Brilliant_.’ Gary’s beaming; he and Rob are finally going to do something fun together! It’ll be like a first date, except it won’t be like a date at all because the others will all be here and Gary will look bloody awful because he forgot to pack his good football shorts back in London. But still, it’s something. ‘See you in a bit, mate.’

With that, Gary makes a move to head back down the stairs and leave the rooftop, but not before Rob calls his name one more time and makes him stop in his tracks. For the first time that day, he notices what Gary’s wearing.

‘Gaz?’

‘Yeah, mate?’

Rob doesn’t know why he’s about to say this, but he says it anyway. ‘I really like your jeans.’

  
FRIDAY – SEPTEMBER 2009 – NEW YORK – A FOOTBALL FIELD

It’s dark. The pleasant September warmth from that afternoon still lingers in the air. In the distance, the illuminated silhouette of the New York skyline stands out against the sapphire sky. Leaves of grass move slowly as the wind whispers over the ground, and they’ve never looked more beautiful.

From up here, the buildings that make up the famous outline of New York are in touching distance, and yet the city couldn’t be farther away. Here, the air smells of grass, not taxi fumes. The temperature is gentle rather than stifling. There are no tourists taking pictures of bloody everything, and it’s only until Robbie realizes that he hasn’t seen a camera for two hours that he remembers what he’s here for: to play football with Take That.

It’s good to be away from the studio. Electric Lady Studios are a delight to write and record in, but it’s still a former club in a basement. It’s stifling, and often uninspiring. Even the studio’s many gold and platinum records on the wall have started to look the same.  

Here, though, on the outskirts of New York, the entire world is framed in stunning shapes of blue and black. It’s brand new and fresh and beautiful, and nothing like what Rob imagined he’d one day be seeing on this trip. He imagined old studios and dirty lyrics sheets and arguments for days on end — not the glow of New York City on a football field. He’s glad Gary invited him.   

Despite Rob’s nervousness around Gary, cameras, wraps, journalists, and recording studios, the writing sessions generally seem to be going well. It’s a slow process, but the lads have completed one song so far: it’s called _The Flood_ , and they’ve all considered calling it the best thing they’ve ever done. It is.

Second and third and fourth songs seem to be scarce thus far, but they’re all working on _something_ , at least:  Howard’s come up with a brand new backing track; Jay’s been tinkering with the lyrics of _The Flood_ ; Mark’s desperately trying to remember the song he heard in his dreams three days ago, and Gary’s made a personal vow not to stare at Rob arse as much as he has been. So far, he’s failed miserably. (He _has_ finished another song, though.)

Meanwhile, Rob’s been working on about five songs at a time. He’s still deathly afraid that he isn’t contributing enough, so he’s been writing anything and anywhere he can. He’s written at his hotel. He’s written on the subway. At the local café. During lunch. In the cab to the football field. In _bed_. Every time there’s a moment to write down a promising lyric here or jot down a nice word there, Robbie uses it. Even when he thinks the lads aren’t looking at him during the football match, he’ll get out his notebook and write down an adjective that he wants to use in a song. It’s probably one of the main reasons why team Take That end up losing.

***

At seven o’clock, the lads enter the football field. The other team, a five-piece indie band that Mark met in New York last year and stayed in touch with, are already all dressed up in a bad mismatch of cheap sports attire. Rob doesn’t think they look very impressive, but then again Gary didn’t tell him that team Take That lost from them 5-2 when they took them on last year. It’s probably better that way.  

They mingle. The Americans joke about how the losing team has to buy the winners drinks and hotdogs, and Howard replies with a clever quip about Take That being the more successful band out of the two. There’s a genuine sense of joy and mutual respect between the two teams despite being very different bands, and Robbie feels amazing just standing there.

Spending time in the studio is nice, but this is the real deal. This is Take That, as it should have been in the nineties. There are no cameras, no arguments, no nothing — just the five of them having fun with a bunch of lads from New York.

The match is about to start. The boys didn’t have the time to change into their football gear in the studio, so they head to the support building at the other side of the football field to get dressed. It’s not that big, but big enough to house two locker rooms, a weight room, toilets, and a players’ lounge. It reminds Mark of when he used to attend trials for football teams when he was sixteen.

A couple of minutes later, the boys arrive at the changing room. It’s quite small, with only twelve or thirteen wooden lockers in all and no place to hide. The only available shower looks tiny and dirty, and when Mark closes the door behind him and starts taking his top off Robbie’s hit with the sudden and frightening thought that _the lads haven’t seen him naked for years_. It’s a notion that has never bothered him before, but then he sees Gary and never wants to get changed ever again.

At the other end of the locker room, Gary’s thinking the exact same thing. He doesn’t want to get dressed in front of their others either, but he knows he has to. He can’t play football in his jeans, and the others will literally have a field day if he sits this one out.

Robbie and Gary try not to look at each other. Robbie tells himself that his sudden nervousness is ridiculous. It’s just pre-match nerves. After all, did the lads not spend _years_ getting changed together? Did they not see each other butt naked on the set of their first ever music video? Are they not all confident in their own skins? This shouldn’t be an issue.

And yet it is.

Scarlet face turned away, back facing Rob, Gary takes off his favourite white T-shirt as quickly as he can. He changes into his jogging pants so quickly that he almost loses his balance. He constantly tells himself that he shouldn’t turn around for even a single second.

But soon, nerves begin to kick in for him too. Gary’s hands start shaking at the strain of keeping focus. He can’t stop the thought from leaping into his head.

_He wants to look at Rob._

Gary’s fingers struggle with the zipper of his sports bag as he sees perfectly tanned flesh in the corner of his eyes. Feeling silly, he desperately reminds himself that he’s seen Rob half-naked before. _This is nothing new_ , he tells himself. _It’s nothing special. He sees men naked all the time_.

It doesn’t help.

Gary looks at Rob anyway. His curious eyes land on Rob’s half-naked torso for a second or less, but it’s more than enough. Gary turns red as an old flame rekindles in his heart. He feels warm inside. The image of Rob’s body is seared into his mind’s eye, and he finds himself thinking how strong and beautiful and utterly _fuckable_ Robbie looks like that.

Gary knows the latter is a thought too far. He tries not to look at Rob again, but he can’t help it. His eyes are drawn to his crush one more time, and this time he catches Rob staring right back at him. The look they share lasts too long. It’s misplaced; it doesn’t belong.

Rob’s eyes take in Gary’s soft, gentle body for far longer than they should, and it fills him with one confusing thought after another. They’re in a harsh, irreversible language he doesn’t understand.  

 _He_ likes _Gary like this_.

Mortified at these wrong, intrusive thoughts, Rob spends the next five minutes staring at a dirty spot on the ceiling so he won’t look at Gary again. He gets dressed so quickly that he puts his shirt on the wrong way round, but he’s too scared to change. He tells himself over and over again that what he’s thinking is wrong and ridiculous and the worst thing he’s ever thought, but the feeling in his tummy stays.

It’s almost worse than being surrounded by cameras. Rob can run away from cameras, but this? These _thoughts_ he’s having? He’ll never escape from that at all.

Rob tries to press the thoughts away. He puts on an innocent face and pretends that the only thing his mind can think of is music and football and the documentary. It works for Howard and Jay, but not for Mark.

Mark saw everything.

Mark decides to cut the tension the moment he’s put on his own football shirt. Even _he_ felt weird watching the awkward display in front of him.

‘So what’d _you_ think of the documentary so far then, Rob?’ he asks his friend, who visibly starts when his name is mentioned, like he has a million and one things on his conscience. ‘I know you were findin’ it difficult on Tuesday.’

Rob’s thrilled with the distraction. By the time he answers, Gary’s already all dressed up in his unflattering jogging attire. Rob tries not to look at him again even though he desperately wants to.

‘I, _er_ , I think I’m getin’ better now, yeah. A little bit. I still got really nervous about it this morning, though.  I thought the cameramen were about to enter the recording booth with all their equipment at one point and I nearly burst into a sweary rendition of _Angels_ so they wouldn’t be able to film me.’

‘Yeah, same here, Rob,’ Howard chimes in, oblivious to Rob and Gary’s strange looks at each other earlier. ‘People filmin’ me in the middle of me writing process is not something I’m used to either. They’re good lads, though. They seem to know what they’re doing, don’t they?’

‘Their interviews are good too,’ adds Gary, happy to act like he was listening to the conversation the entire time. ‘They interviewed me the other day and they were really good, for their age. I was expecting worse questions like what me favourite colour is.’

This intrigues Jason. He’s wearing a tight football outfit that makes him look lean and handsome. ‘What were their questions about?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual, really,’ answers Gary, with a shy look at Rob that makes Rob turn away and stare at his sneakers. The image of Rob’s hairy chest is still on his mind’s eye, and he desperately wishes it wasn’t. ‘Stuff about the nineties and so on. How did I feel when Patience went to number one, that sort of thing. I spent most of the time convincing them not to join us tonight, though!’

Howard groans. ‘I’d fucking hate it if they filmed us playing football. Especially if we’re shite.’

‘Speaking of the devil, we should probably go out there, shouldn’t we?’ Gary says. ‘We don’t want the other guys to beat us before we even get started . . .’

They quickly leave the locker room. Rob poorly convinces himself that what he was thinking was just his mind playing tricks on him, and he almost, _almost_ forgets about it the moment his sneakers hit the grass.

Meanwhile, Mark refuses to be as blind as his bandmates. Knowing he can’t tell Rob, Howard or Jason about what he saw in the locker room, he quickly catches up with Gary’s long strides on the football field and cautiously brings it up.

‘That was very subtle, Mr. Barlow. I could get you binoculars for Christmas.’

‘Shut up. Mark.’ Gary shoots an anxious look over his shoulder before continuing to talk to Mark in a faint whisper. The others are too far away to overhear what they’re saying, and Rob’s in the middle of an animated conversation with Howard and Jason anyway. ‘I know it probably _looked_ like I was ogling Rob just now, but I wasn’t, all right? Believe me, I was trying very hard not to . . .’

‘Maybe, Gary, but he was definitely oglin’ _you_.’

Gary lets out a weak laugh. ‘In me dreams, maybe. Remember when he used to make fun of me pubes when we had to get changed together in the nineties? Those were the days. I don’t think anyone’s seen me naked since.’

Mark laughs too. ‘Yeah, I remember. You were already checkin’ him out then, weren’t you?’

‘No way, mate. I kept me eyes on the ceiling, is what I did in the nineties.’

‘Sure, Gaz.’

‘I did!’

Mark can’t be bothered to point out that Gary used to stare at Rob _all the time_ in the nineties, so he brings up what he saw in the locker room instead. The facts don’t lie: there was _definitely_ something going on between the two of them.

‘I think you’re wrong to dismiss his feelings so quickly, you know, Gaz. You keep sayin’ that you’re not his type or that you’re not the kind of person that he likes seein’ but I don’t think that’s true at all. I mean, I saw how he was lookin’ at you just now. That’s not how you look at a mate, you know. As far as I know, anyway. Maybe that’s how Rob looks at everyone. But I don’t think so cos that would be really weird.’

‘It’s probably just cos of me incredibly trained body,’ Gary jokes self-deprecatingly. Then, whispering: ‘Mind you – and I don’t want you telling anyone about this, all right –, he didn’t look so bad himself just now, as shallow as it sounds. I didn’t even realise I liked men with tattoos so much . . .’

‘See? So you _were_ oglin’ him.’

‘Ma—ybe.’ Turning red again, Gary badly changes the topic. ‘So, _er_ , have you asked him about his type yet then if you’re so sure that he likes me back?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘Not yet. But I will if you want me to. I could do it tonight, if you want. I could do it really subtly. Like, what do you think of this attractive male celebrity who looks a bit like Gaz, that sort of thing. I think that could work. Never mind that, though, have _you_ thought about how you’re goin’ to tell him yet?’

Gary shakes his head too. He knows he promised Mark that he would tell Rob eventually, but he doesn’t know when ‘eventually’ is. It could be tomorrow. Or next month. Or in 2010. But regardless, his confession is something he has to get absolutely right if he wants to avoid making a fool of himself.

‘I haven’t really thought about it yet,’ Gary tells Mark as much. ‘Me and Rob did have quite a good chat about the documentary last Tuesday, though. He said he liked my jeans, whatever that means.’

‘The jeans your bum looked really good in? That’s a good sign, isn’t it? You did put them on for a reason.’

Gary guesses it it _is_ a good sign, but they speak no further: they’ve reached centre mark of the football field, where their opponents are, and the time for small talk is over. They’re about to lose the match and enjoy every second of it.

Mark was right, though — Rob _was_ looking at Gary earlier; and not with fear or nerves or regret, but with something far, far better. Mark _felt_ it. There was something in the dark corners of Rob’s eyes that Mark had never seen in them before, like curiosity or intrigue.

Whatever it was, it was enough to make Rob stare at Gary throughout the match, wide-eyed and captivated. Maybe he doesn’t want to forget how Gary’s making him feel after all.

***

There’s no polite way of saying this, but Take That are absolutely shit at football. It’s half-time, and the only point they’ve scored so far was an embarrassing own goal by the opposing goalkeeper. Even Mark and Robbie, two avid footballers, haven’t managed to break through the home team’s line of defence. It’s as if they’re professional footballers as well as members of an indie band.  

With team Take That feeling absolutely knackered, both teams have agreed on a ten-minute break. The other team are such keen athletes that they’ve gathered in a circle to discuss the match like veritable professionals at the FA cup, but Take That have more or less split up. Gary’s gone to the bathroom; Mark’s admiring the city view; Howard and Jason are discussing food rather than football tactics, and Rob’s quietly retreated to the sidelines with a pen and a notepad to work on some lyrics he came up with during the match. He literally spent the last three minutes of the match reciting the same lyrics over and over again in his head so he wouldn’t forget them.

Seeing that Rob’s all on his own on the football field, Mark decides this could be the perfect moment to ask Rob about his ideal partner. He approaches Rob slowly. He nods at the empty space on the grass next to him. ‘D’you mind?’

‘Not at all, mate.’ Having written more than enough, Rob carefully closes his notepad and puts it away. The last three pages are full of illegible lyrics that he quickly jotted down before Mark got here. ‘Careful, though, it’s a bit muddy. I got dirt on me trousers and now it looks like I’ve pooped meself.’

‘Right. Thanks.’ Mark sits. He crosses his legs and gesticulates at the notepad next to Robbie in the grass. At the other end of the field, the other team have started doing push-ups. ‘What were you workin’ on?’

‘Nothin’ special. Just some lyrics I came up with earlier. I really wanna be able to show you guys something of me own before I head back to London next month, so I’ve been tryin’ to write as much as I can. I even wrote in me sleep, can you believe it? As in, I had dreams about songs. I didn’t actually grab me notebook and write whilst I was sat up in me bed with me eyes closed. That’d be weird. Amazing, though.’

‘What are the lyrics about, then?’

‘Not much, at the moment,’ Rob sighs disappointedly. He unconsciously runs his hands through the grass and starts pulling out one grass blade after another to stop his mind from making him feel like he’s not doing enough. ‘I’ve loads of things I want to write about, but I keep moving from one thing to the next before I can even finish something. When I woke up this morning I’d written this entire verse about aliens.’

‘And the lyrics you just wrote in your notebook aren’t about that?’

‘No, they’re about groupies. Same thing, I guess.’

Mark lets out a hearty laugh. He stretches out his aching legs and leans back on his arms and hands, utterly at ease. ‘I think it’s a good sign, though, you know. You comin’ up with a lot of different ideas. It shows that you’re in a good place, I think. And if you’re not sure about your lyrics or your songs then you can always ask Howard and Jay to have a look at it cos they’re really good at that sort of thing. Or you could ask Gaz . . .’

The mention of Gary’s name makes Rob look down at the grass he’s been destroying. His sports trousers are full of tiny grass blades that make him look like he’s been rolling through a park all afternoon. ‘I – I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable sharin’ me stuff with him yet.’

‘No? You should. He’s really not that strict, you know,’ Mark says. Then he brings up Gary’s previous chat with Robbie so subtly that he’ll never be accused of changing the subject. ‘Speaking of Gaz, though, he mentioned that the two of you had a good chat on Tuesday. That must have been nice.’

Rob feels himself warm up at the mere mention of their chat. Why does his body keep doing that?

And why does he _like_ it so much?

‘What did you guys talk about?’ Mark asks, even though he knows already.

‘Oh, you know. Stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Just – I don’t know, things we had in common, I guess,’ Rob says, and he’s surprised at how warm and proud the words come out, like he looks back on that chat far keener than he ever thought. ‘He mentioned a few things that I didn’t realize about ‘im, and it really helped me put things in perspective, you know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, mate, I still hate that we’re doin’ this bloody documentary, but Gary – I don’t know, I guess he’s just helped a lot.’

Robbie looks down at his lap again. He still feels hot and strange inside, so he adds an unsolicited ‘He’s a shit goalkeeper, though’ to take the edge off.

‘He is, isn’t he?’ Mark laughs, remembering that Gary let in about four goals in the space of three minutes. ‘Still, it finally sounds like Gary’s not making you nervous anymore. Or do you still feel like Gary used to be mean to you?’

Truth be told, Rob doesn’t know how Gary’s making him feel anymore. One moment he thinks he’s perfectly at ease with being with Gaz, but then Gary looks at him again and his head fills up with so much _noise_ that he doesn’t know anymore. Rob wants to pretend that seeing Gary naked in the dressing room meant absolutely nothing and that it was no more than a strange, silly thought that he can lock into the darkest corner of his mind and never think of again, but deep down he knows better. They both do. The thoughts he had about Gary in the locker room changed everything.

‘I guess — I guess I don’t know, mate,’ Rob admits, and it’s the honest truth. He’s going to have to spend a lot more time with Gary to figure out what that man means to him. ‘You were right about one thing, though. He does care about a lot more than just music. He looks out for us. I really didn’t think he would. But I guess that’s what growing up does to you. ’

Mark’s beaming. ‘See? I told ya things would get better.’

‘We haven’t _done_ very much, though,’ Rob pouts, talking about their creative process rather than what he’s done with Gary. ‘Is it normal that we’ve only finished one song so far? I don’t wanna find out that I’ve been putting everyone off just by bein’ ‘ere!’

‘You haven’t. I think everyone’s just tryin’ to find their feet, you know. We _all_ want this album to be really good, so we’re all still figurin’ out where we want to take it. But that’s a good thing, I think. It’s okay that we want to take things slow. And _The Flood_ ’s amazing, so that’s a good thing too, I guess.’ Then Marks attention leaves Rob. ‘The other team are very enthusiastic, aren’t they?’

Mark nods at their competitors. They’ve stopped doing push-ups and are now running circles round the football field in intimidatingly perfect symphony. They remind Mark of an army battalion preparing for a battle.

The team are getting closer. One of its members, the handsome team captain and lead singer of the indie band they’re in, has taken off his shirt to reveal a broad, sculpted torso. It strikes Mark as the perfect moment to discuss Rob’s romantic preferences, and he nudges Rob with his elbow when their attractive opponents march past.

‘He looks like he works out a lot, doesn’t he?’

Rob looks at the guy Mark is indicating. They all look more or less the same to him. ‘You mean the guy with his top off?’

‘Yeah. He’s very handsome.’ It’s a leading statement to see if Rob agrees. With his brown hair, athletic body and tall build, the team captain is the complete opposite of Gary.

‘Dunno, mate. I prefer blonde guys so he doesn’t do much for me, personally,’ Rob admits, without really thinking his words through. ‘I mean, I like _both_ , and I’ve _done_ both, but I _love_ blondes. Don’t know why. I just fucking do, you know? I wonder if that means I find _myself_ attractive or not. I guess not.’

This makes such a perfect bridge to what Mark’s been meaning to ask that he can hardly stop himself from grinning.

‘So . . . blonde guys like Gary?’ Mark asks very, very innocently indeed, and it comes as such a blow to the head that Rob turns red. He starts stammering. His stupid brain brings back to mind the image of Gary’s oh so inviting body in the locker room.

‘G-Gary? I — I’ve never —’ Rob lets out a nervous sort of laugh. He assumes Mark is trying to imply that he finds Gary Barlow attractive, which he _absolutely does not. No way._ ‘Gaz isn’t handsome, mate.’

Mark makes a face as if someone’s just told him they don’t like listening to music. ‘You don’t think Gary is handsome? _I_ think he’s handsome.’

‘I suppose he is if you’re into guys who are 5’8” or shorter or something.’

‘But . . . you _do_ like people who are shorter than you, don’t you, Rob?’

If it were possible for Rob to turn even redder than he already is, he’d probably turn the same colour as a fire truck.

‘I – I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mark,’ Robbie stammers. ‘I’m not – I don’t – I like all sorts of shapes and sizes . . .’

Mark scrunches up his nose. He thinks of all the boyfriends and girlfriends Rob’s had over the years. ‘Really? All your previous partners were shorter than you, though, weren’t they?’

Mark’s been saying all these things with the innocence of a child, but Robbie feels rather attacked. What the hell is Mark playing at? What is he trying to suggest?

‘Mark, mate. I’ve no idea what you’re tryin’ to say here.’

‘I was just wonderin’ about your type,’ Mark says. Judging by Rob’s face, he may have gone a step too far. He quickly comes up with a nonsensical lie to talk his way out of it, before Rob suspects he wants to set him and Gary up. ‘You know, in case we go on tour and we need brand new dancers and you wanna be paired up with someone in particular. I always make sure I end up with someone who’s shorter than me, and Jay usually likes dancin’ with brunettes.’

Mark’s explanation is utter bollocks (Take That respect their female dancers very much indeed, and while they’re all conventionally attractive they would never pick them on their looks alone), but Rob’s caught it hook, line, and sinker. He feels a strange sense of relief to know that Mark wasn’t talking about Gary after all.

‘So you’re not talking about Gaz then?’

Mark feigns a look of complete ignorance. ‘Why would I be talkin’ about Gaz? I only used him as an example of a blonde person. I could have mentioned my childhood mate from Oldham as well.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Rob feels silly now. Why does his mind feel the need to bring up Gary at every single opportunity? Just because he enjoyed seeing Gary in the locker room — no. He’s not even going to think about that now.

Rob straightens. He apologises for the misunderstanding.

‘Sorry. I misunderstood, mate. I don’t really care about dancers, to be honest. I mean, I obviously do care about them when they’re on tour with me, but I’m usually more worried about them making me look shit!’ Then Rob’s face falls. It’s only now that the significance of Mark’s comment truly kicks in. ‘Hang on, though, Mark — I’m not going to have to dance on tour, do I? Have you ever _seen_ my shows? I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall on me arse in the middle of a fucking ballad . . .’

This comment naturally turns their chat turn into a discussion about a potential five-piece tour. They briefly discuss ideas and set lists and venues, but all the while Mark keeps thinking about what Rob’s just told him.

It’s a stretch, but the fact that Robbie likes blondes and people shorter than him could mean that he likes Gary after all . . .

***

It’s almost nine o’clock. The match has just ended, and Gary half-runs, half-walks to join Mark on the football field. He _has_ to find out if Mark asked Rob anything.

‘So . . .’ Gary says once he’s fallen into step with Mark’s short strides, ‘did you ask Rob about _the thing_?’

Mark gives a proud nod. They’re headed back to the locker rooms, and Howard, Jason, and Robbie are a couple of paces in front of them. The other team, who won 2-7, have stayed behind to re-evaluate their match and drink the cans of beer Mark ended up buying them at the canteen.

‘I did, yeah.’

‘ _And_?’

‘Oh, you know, nothing special. He said he likes blondes and guys who are shorter than him.’

Gary cocks his right eyebrow. ‘That’s not very helpful, is it?’

‘ _You’re_ blonde and shorter than Rob, though, aren’t you, Gaz?’

‘Oh. _Oh_. Right. Well, Christ.’ Gary rubs the back of his head, uncertain what to do with that piece of information. ‘Do you think that means anything? I mean, there are a lot of blonde people in the world.’

‘You tell me, Gaz.’

Gary stops in his tracks. He shoots an anxious look at Robbie, who is too busy talking to Jason about music to hear anything. ‘What do you mean, _you tell me_? You’re the one in the know here!’

Mark stops too. He gives Gary a sympathetic smile. ‘I _know_ , Gaz, but it’s not me who has to do something with that information, is it? I can keep askin’ Rob crap like do you like blondes or what are you like on a date, but _I_ can’t date ‘im, Gaz. I mean, I suppose I could, but I don’t think you’d like it very much. And I’d constantly be breakin’ me neck tryin’ to kiss him so I probably wouldn’t enjoy it anyway. _You_ have to ask him out.’

Gary crosses his arms and draws himself up even taller than usual. Beyond, he can see his bandmates disappearing into the support building to get changed in the locker rooms.

‘Like I said, Mark, I can’t just _ask him out on a date._ Anyway, I’ve been busy! I’ve had too many things on me plate to even start considering something like that. You know I’ve been busy organising that charity event I was asked to do.’

‘Have you, though? Have you been phonin’ up any artists lately? Have you asked _us_?’ Mark utters it like a genuine question, not an accusation.

‘No, but —’

‘Right, so your argument about being too busy is a bit silly, then, isn’t it?’ Here, Gary opens his mouth to interrupt, but Mark’s not letting him. ‘I’m tellin’ you, Gaz, Rob _likes you back_. The signs are there. I’ve seen it. Rob just needs someone to tell ‘im that he does.’

Again with that same delusional argument! ‘Why don’t _you_ tell him if you’re so bloody sure, Mark?’

‘I’ve told you, Mr. Barlow. That’s not my job. It has to be you.’

Gary shakes his head. He understands where Mark’s coming from, he really does, but he could still be seeing things that aren’t there. Rob supposedly liking blondes could mean fucking anything, and Gary’s still not entirely convinced that Rob even cares about him at all. When you’re in love, you tend to think _most_ things are a sign: faraway looks, smiles, brief touches — even the song Robbie writes in the studio. He and Mark could be seeing things that aren’t there for all he knows.

‘It’s too soon, Mark. I’ve told you before that I’m not going to tell him immediately. I _will_ , all right, but not today.’

Mark smiles sympathetically. ‘Gary. It’s been _years_.’

‘Not for him, it hasn’t.’

That’s a good point. Mark changes his tact. ‘All right, next month then. Give yourself a target.’

‘I can’t tell him next month, he’ll be too busy doing promo for his brand new album in London. I think he’s supposed to show up at _X Factor_ soon, actually.’

Mark remembers. Rob may be in the middle of recording with Take That, but he’s still a solo artist, and he announced the release of his own album long before he returned to the band.

‘Then how about November?’ Mark suggests. He doesn’t think Rob has much promo planned that month. ‘November’s a good month.’

‘His _album_ comes out in November.’

‘That . . . could be a good thing, you know,’ Mark points out, literally plucking the argument out of thin air. ‘Maybe he’ll be so tired that he won’t get mad at you for tellin’ ‘im. He could be grateful for a nice distraction, if you know what I mean.’

Gary tries to come up with a counter-argument, but his mind draws a blank. He has to give in. November _does_ sound good. ‘Fine, November, then. But if the band split up because of me telling Rob that I fancy him I’m blaming you, Mark!’

‘Deal. But he won’t _leave_ , you know . . .’

  
  
THE DAY AFTER THE X FACTOR – OCTOBER 2009 – LONDON – SARM STUDIOS

He’s the most experienced person here, and yet he’s bloody terrified. It shows: his hands are shaking. His eyes, bloodshot and dazed, are as large as saucers. He resembles a deer in the headlights, and it going to look even worse on the television screens he’s about to appear on.

In the television studio, the cameras are even more distracting than the ones back in New York. They’re absolutely fucking everywhere: backstage, on stage, in the middle of the expectant British audience. The only thing they don’t capture is the moment when a young Olly Murs talks to him and an embarrassing chain of events is set in motion.

Robbie forgets his lyrics, instantly. They’re suddenly replaced with the ones that he was working on that morning: _you're in a room with a rock star; only_ _I play the good parts of a kind heart._ They’re not the lyrics he’s meant to be singing, and Rob doesn’t feel like a rock star at all. He feels no bigger than the young, hopeful contestants who look up to him because of his string of number one hits.

What do those hits even mean, anyway?

The lights in the studio go out. He hears dramatic music in the background. The announcer hypes up the performance: Robbie’s back; it’s a comeback. _Don't call it a comeback._

The crowd cheers as Robbie’s face appears on the massive LED screen above the stage, and Rob feels sick. He looks for something to throw up in, but the bile catches in his throat. He swallows it down the moment his name is announced and the crowd goes wild.

An assistant producer urges him to move. He won’t remember it afterwards. The automatic door that the producer leads him to refuses to work, and he has to push it open himself, making him feel even more nervous than he already was.

The next thing he knows, Rob’s no longer backstage. Bright lights blind him when his song starts and he’s suddenly staring into the belly of a roaring audience that he’s not familiar with. Where are the women who always show up in the first row? Where are the familiar faces who’ve chained themselves to the barrier? This is not his audience — it’s the _X Factor’s_.

He’s barely conscious of what he’s doing. He knows what song he’s singing, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t even want to _be_ here, performing _Bodies_ on the bloody X Factor. He wants to be back with his mates, where he belongs. He wants to go back into the studio and write with them, but Take That aren’t here, and no-one knows the band is back together anyway. The only thing Rob can do is sing and move and pray he doesn’t suck.

He _sucks_. It’s a bad performance. The audience doesn’t mind, but only because they’ve had to sit through a string of young popstar hopefuls who can’t sing in tune.

Then it hits him. It makes him feel dizzy in the middle of the ITV studios.

 _This is his first live performance in three years._ The last time he toured or sang live or did anything remotely in public at all, he made a complete fool of himself. Before this evening, the only places he’d visited in two years’ time were his backyard, a football match, the supermarket and Electric Lady Studios in New York. That’s it. Every other place was daunting and bloody terrifying.

If he wanted to, Rob wouldn’t even be here at all. He’d be promoting _Reality Killed The Video Star_ from the back of his kitchen or show up somewhere as a fucking hologram, but he knows he can’t do that now. If he wants his reunion with the lads to work out, he _has_ to be on Take That’s mind-blowing, stadium-worthy level that he so aspires to.

But tonight? Tonight, Robbie Williams looks like a mess. The song’s good, but _he_ isn’t. He looks like a bad parody of himself: high, drunk, lost, and out of control. He’s not even consciously there — so much so that he barely remembers where he is when the song ends and Dermot O’Leary shows up with a fucking microphone.

The crowd is applauding, but Rob can’t hear it. He can’t hear anything but his own demons in his head, drowning out Dermot’s questions about the album. He’s only vaguely aware of answering the questions with something his manager told him to say.   

Terrified, Rob keeps staring into the crowd of fans and X Factor hopefuls. They all look deeply unimpressed with him, and their nasty, negative comments start hitting him like painful blows to the head.

_He’s definitely off his tits._

_He’s lost it, hasn’t he?_

_Remember when he churned out tunes like_ Feel _and_ Supreme _? What happened to him_?

_If you ever wanted a reason not to do drugs this is it right here._

_No wonder he never made it in the States._

The comments are terrible. They’re addictive. Rob keeps asking for more and more until he feels the sofa dip underneath him and he’s transported back to the present. He’s no longer on the X Factor live stage; he’s at SARM Studios in London, lightyears away from negativity. The performance Rob just replayed in his heart and his head happened _last night_ — not two minutes ago.

‘Rob. What on Earth are you doin’?’ It’s Gary. They’re sitting at arms’ length on the sofa in the lounge.

Rob doesn’t respond, so Gary repeats his question. He asks what Rob is doing, and Rob suddenly colours violently and quickly closes his laptop when he realises Gary’s looking at his screen. It makes him look more suspicious than if he’d just kept the laptop open.

‘I – I wasn’t doin’ anything fishy, Gaz,’ Rob swears, even though Gary didn’t suggest as much. ‘Honest. I’ve never done anything weird on the internet, ever. I just go on Wikipedia all day to look up the discographies of me contemporaries.’

‘Then why did it look like you were watching videos on YouTube? I thought you were goin’ to write that song you told us about earlier.’

A quiet Monday morning in October, Take That have been at SARM Studios all day. Gary came in with a really good backing track; Jay mentioned some cool ideas that they could explore on the record; Mark wore a hat, and Rob and Howard worked on a song together for the first time in years. They also re-recorded Rob’s vocals for _The Flood_ , which was probably a really good call as Rob sounded bloody terrified on the first take.

Four hours later, almost everyone’s decided to disappear into Notting Hill for the afternoon — everyone but Gary, who decided to tinker with a song in the control room, and Rob, who stayed behind to binge-watch bad performances of himself and Take That on YouTube in the studio lounge. It’s quite a modern lounge, with soft beige walls and grey sofas for its guest to sit on. Unlike at Electric Lady Studios, there are no Persian carpets that people can trip over.

‘I wasn’t watching “weird” videos on YouTube, Gaz,’ Rob protests, with his fingers making quotation marks. He places his laptop on the glass lounge table in front of him and crosses his arms. ‘I was just watchin’ yesterday’s performance of _Bodies_ again, that’s all. I know I wasn’t meself last night so I was curious at how it looked on screen, and you know what? It looked _crap_ , Gaz. _Crap_. I look even worse than half of the contestants on that show, and _they’re_ all less experienced than me!’

Gary saw the performance when Mark came over for tea last night. It was Rob’s first live performance in years, and Gary thought it was disappointingly below average.

‘It wasn’t _that_ bad, Rob. And anyway, I think it’s clever of you, you watching yourself back,’ Gary says, careful not to mention what he really thought of last night’s performance. ‘It’s nice sometimes, watching your own performances again. It’s what _we_ do when we’re not really sure about a certain segment on tour. Be careful to avoid the comments section on YouTube, though. They’re always terrible, those comments. Someone mentioned me tummy once and I don’t think I’ve worn tight shirts ever since.’

Rob’s face falls. He turns red. ‘Actually, Gaz, I _was_ reading what people were sayin’ . . .’

The makes Gary’s feel a strange sense of dread. He suddenly pictures himself in his backyard in Cheshire, reading tabloid after tabloid when he was still a struggling solo artist. He used to digest every single negative article about his life and his career until he was absolutely confident that the press were right about him. In other words, it’s the worst thing Robbie could do right now.

‘You’re not mad at me, are you, Gaz?’ Rob says, spotting the conflicted look on Gary’s face. ‘I mean, it’s only _YouTube_. . . It’s not like people actually _mean_ it when they say they think I shouldn’t have bothered coming back . . .’

‘I’m just really surprised that you’d do that sort of thing, Rob,’ Gary says, sounding equally worried and disappointed. ‘It’s _really_ not the best way to find out what people think of you, reading comments on the internet. It’s like being able to read minds, except everyone’s using smileys and they’re all deeply unimpressed with you. I wouldn’t recommend it, mate. Trust me.’

‘ _Why_ do you think it’s so bad, though?’ Rob asks, genuinely curious. It’s not a questioning of Gary’s judgment; he genuinely wants to know. He’s been checking himself out online ever since someone got him an internet connection back in the nineties, and the comments have never genuinely bothered him. ‘They were sayin’ very nice things about Jason in a video I was watchin’ earlier. _And_ you. They said you were a good songwriter, Gaz! Isn’t that something you’d _want_ to know? And anyway, I’m supposed to be performin’ this song again next week so I might as well try to find out which parts of the performance weren’t complete shit . . .’

Gary doesn’t want them to have an argument about something as trivial as the internet, so he thinks hard about his next words. He almost wishes they weren’t inside the tiny walls of SARM Studios, but at home, where a conversation like this might be less stifling. ‘I get that, Rob, but one good comment on bloody YouTube doesn’t change how nasty the internet is, mate. I wouldn’t be sayin’ this if I didn’t care about you, you know!’

It’s a fairly meaningless comment, but it doesn’t feel like it. Rob catches Gary’s indecipherable green eyes again, and he thinks back to all the things they’ve done so far: writing, recording, playing football, and having tea, but also all the rooftop chats and the secret glances when Gary thinks Rob isn’t looking at him. Rob _still_ doesn’t understand why Gary likes looking at him so much, but then again he’s been trying to catch Gary’s eye just as much.

‘You know, Gaz, everyone keeps sayin’ that, about you caring ‘bout me, but I still don’t know _what that means_.’ Again, Rob thinks about all the private moments the two of them have shared. His mind works overtime to find their significance, but he’s not quite there yet. He still doesn’t see it, or maybe he just doesn’t want to. ‘Is there something you’re not tellin’ me?’

Now it’s Gary’s time to turn red. He blurts out his answer a little too loudly. If the others had been there, they would have heard his response no matter where in the small building they were.

‘It just means that I don’t want you to end up like me, Rob. Okay? I don’t want you to end up like me.’

‘Why? Did you used to be addicted to the internet or something?’ Rob furrows his brow. He leans closer conspiratorially. ‘Like, _porn_? Cos I can relate.’

‘ _Christ_ , no. Not that,’ Gary laughs. (Gary Barlow doesn’t watch porn, ever. But only because he can’t find any fit porn stars with tattoos.)

Rob’s right, though, there _is_ something Gary isn’t telling him: a bigger, darker reason why he used to fear the cameras — and why he doesn’t want Rob to check himself out online again. ‘You know when I said I used to be nervous around cameras, like you?’

Rob nods. He remembers it well. It was on the rooftop in New York, when he finally felt like he and Gary had something in common. (He also seems to remember Gary’s jeans very well, which is odd.)

‘I do, yeah,’ Rob says. ‘It made me feel a lot better about the documentary. I mean, I do still fucking hate that we’re going through with it, but not as much as I used to. I only hate it ninety percent of the time now.’

‘Well, it wasn’t the full story, mate,’ Gary mumbles, leaving the sentence in the air to see if Rob might pick it up.  

‘What’d you mean, it wasn’t the full story?’

Gary averts his eyes to his own lap as he contemplates whether he really wants to tell Rob this. It’s not something he likes talking about, but he doesn’t want Rob to turn out like him, and he knows he needs to start being more honest anyway. If Gary ever, _ever_ wants to tell Rob how much he loves him, he needs to be truthful about everything — even his past.

‘What I mean is that the reason I shut meself up and shunned the cameras wasn’t cos I wasn’t famous anymore, it was because I was — I was —’ Gary finds it hard to say the word. It’s not one he likes saying. ‘I was . . . down, Rob. Depressed. I wouldn’t even wish it on me own worst enemy, it was so bad. Days went by without me even leaving me house.

‘But you know what, after a while I just stopped fighting it. I couldn’t be bothered to make meself feel better anymore cos I knew it wouldn’t last anyway. Instead, I’d read every single article about me I could find and make meself feel even worse when no-one was talking about me. That’ll happen to you too if you’re not careful, mate. It can be addictive, those comments.’

Originally, this was the only Gary was going to tell Rob today, but something prompts Gary to keep going. He has to force each word out before he loses his nerve and regrets ever having said them.

‘Cos you know what, Rob, that’s what the time before the reunion looked like, for me. It wasn’t like Mark releasing his solo albums or Jay studying to become a psychologist or Dougie raising his kids, it was a bloody mess of negativity until I believed everything everyone was sayin’ about me. I don’t even know if I’d still be here if the reunion happened. I really don’t.’

It’s not until the words leave his mouth that Gary realises with a thud what he’s just told Rob. He takes a sharp, shaky breath to steady his nerves and make himself feel better, but the nerves don’t disappear, and he doesn’t feel better at all. He feels like he’s about to snap in half, and yet he keeps taking. The words leave his lips like a waterfall/

‘And you know what really, really bothered me?’ Here, Gary laughs at the painful memory of himself; laughs because it’s the reverse image of what he feels inside today. ‘It’s how bloody jealous I was of you. I hated you _so_ much, Rob. So much. Cos while I was stuck in me own bedroom, you were out there playin’ the biggest gigs of your life. And I thought, why can’t _I_ have that? Why can’t that be me?

‘But then — then I remembered all the things the press had ever said about me, and I realised they’d seen it all coming. They were right about me, those journalists. They said me career was heading nowhere, so that’s what I started believin’, and that’s what happened in the end. I believed it until I couldn’t be bothered to be alive anymore.’

Only the half-sob that escapes Gary’s mouth next stops complete silence from cloaking the studio. Gary hadn’t expected the truth to pour out of him like that, and Rob hadn’t counted on Gary to ever confide in him.

It’s the first time Gary’s ever talked about how depressed he was before the comeback, and it _hurts_. Admitting that he had once shut himself off from the outside world is one thing, but admitting how he actually _felt_ is something else. This is Gary’s deepest, darkest secret.

‘I — I don’t know what to say, Gaz,’ Rob admits, a little lost for words because he’s not used to having such deep conversations with the lads. He knows that the years before the comeback were hard – Gary told him so himself a few weeks ago –, but he’d never imagined it was _this_ bad. This is like someone’s just told him the sky isn’t blue and the birds that occupy it can’t fly, all because of _him_. ‘I can’t help but feel really responsible, Gaz. I used to say a lot of hurtful things about you. I’m so sorry.’

Gary waves his hands in the air in an attempt to brush the topic away. He attempts a smile, but it’s sad. He feels simultaneously embarrassed and relieved that he told Rob all this, even though he wishes he’d done it anywhere but inside a studio.

‘Don’t, Rob. It’s — it’s over now. I’m happy. I just don’t want you to head the same way, is all I’m sayin’. There are better ways to spend your time than to looking yourself up online or carin’ about what people are sayin’ about you, believe me. You’re much better than that.’

Gary’s trying his hardest to make his admission seem unimportant, but Rob can tell that this is probably the most personal thing he’s ever shared. This isn’t something you just brush away like it never even happened — this is something you talk about, like they should have done in the nineties. If they had, Gary might never even have felt this way.

Seeing that Gary’s trembling, Rob does the first thing that comes to mind and grabs Gary’s right hand. He thinks he’s doing it to make Gary feel better, but he’s doing it to make himself feel better too; Gary’s hand feels perfectly soft and warm in his, and Gary’s thinking the same thing about Rob’s. It’s almost an obscene feeling to have in a studio that isn’t even theirs.

‘I _promise_ I won’t look meself up online, Gaz,’ Rob swears. Then he becomes aware of how weird it is that he’s holding Gary’s hand, and his face takes on a giddy, boyish charm. He can’t help it; he _has_ to take the piss. ‘From now on I’ll only be watching shit performances by you.’

This makes Gary snort, and it’s as though a weight is lifted off his shoulders. What a miserable couple the two of them make, with both men having experienced anxiety and depression at such different points in their lives. It should make them achingly aware of how ill-suited they are, but the thought doesn’t occur to them at all. With the other man’s hand fitted so perfectly in their own, they might, in fact, be tempted into thinking they’re perfect for each other.    

‘I’m serious, though, Gaz,’ Robbie says. ‘I’m sorry if I ever said something bad about you. I was young and scared and I just couldn’t deal with the way I’d left the band, I guess. It wasn’t really until you guys came back as a four-piece that I realised how badly I wished I’d never left at all. I should never have let me bitterness come out during interviews.’

‘To be honest, I probably deserved all the things you said about me,’ Gary says, staring at his own hand in Rob’s. He knows it’s just an amicable show of support (Mark would probably have grabbed his hand too, and squeezed it), but that doesn’t stop him from wishing it meant even more. ‘I have no idea how you guys put up with me first time round. All I could think about is what a stepping stone Take That could be for me as a soloist – not what it meant to actually be in the band. I wish someone had told me to be kinder to everyone. I wish I’d asked you how you were doing.’

‘I guess we were all just really scared to speak up,’ Rob says. He lets go of Gary’s hand again, and Gary’s mouth very nearly lets slip a disappointed _oh_. ‘We had so many people tellin’ us what to do that we couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Even you! But I suppose if we _did_ say something about wantin’ to write things of our own or havin’ more solos on tour, we’d just get kicked out of the band anyway. At least, that’s how _I_ felt, at the time. It’s been over ten years, but I still think Nige’s gonna show up and tell me off for something I did wrong on our very first tour or something.’

Rob’s own words make him remember something he told Mark a few weeks ago, about Gary makes him feel like he’s walking on eggshells. He suddenly realises that person was always Nigel, not Gary. In hindsight, Gary doesn’t make him feel so afraid after all — just nervous, but for different reasons.

The comforting thought almost makes Rob want to reach out and touch Gary’s hand again, but unfortunately Gary’s cellphone starts ringing before he can go that far. Strangely enough, Rob’s phone starts ringing three seconds later too, like the two are somehow connected.

Stumped at the strange coincidence, the boys quietly retreat into different rooms to take their calls. With the London studio being impossibly small – and the two lads who are in charge of the Take That documentary having disappeared into the only other room that was empty –, Rob has no choice but to head out onto the street with his mobile phone and hope no-one will see him.

The weather outside is chilly, but the sun is shining. A gentle breeze runs across Robbie’s bare arms, making goose bumps appear. A bird is tweeting a song in a tree up ahead.

SARM Studios isn’t the best studio Rob’s ever been in (a deconstructed church, it reminds Rob too much of all the sins he’s committed), but it’s good to be back in London regardless. Paparazzi may be hiding in every bush and shrub to find out what he’s is doing at a studio in Notting Hill, but it’s still better than being in New York.

As much as Rob loves the songs they came up with there, New York felt stifling and suffocating. He felt weirdly out of place just being there, but London couldn’t feel more like home. This is where the other guys write and work and live out their respective happy endings, and Rob can almost feel the happiness rub off on him. He still prefers the heat in L.A. and misses his villa and his dogs, but for some reason he can see himself being happy here too.

Rob would almost say he already feels happier, period, but he doesn’t know why. It could be because of Mark, who always smiles back at him; or Jay, who always gives him good advice; or Howard, who constantly takes the piss when Rob deliberately comes up with a really shit lyric; or Gary, who has been a better, more understanding friend than Rob ever thought he’d be. Yes, Rob still gets nervous, and _yes_ , he still fears the cameras even when he shouldn’t, but he feels content, and at ease, and that’s more than he could ever wish for.  

Whatever the true cause of Rob’s happiness, it makes him feel comfortable enough to say ‘yes’ to the offer he receives on the phone: a live performance of his latest single on prime-time TV, for charity no less. It could all go tits up like it did at the X Factor last night, but if it does he’ll always have Gary to fall back on, and Mark to remind him to be happy no matter what. This might not be so disastrous after all.

Rob goes back inside. When he returns to lounge, Gary’s already put his phone away too. Gary’s sitting on a large black sofa in the middle of the room, and it’s only now that Robbie realises how simplistic the SARM Studios lounge looks compared to the one they spent so much time in in New York: there are no carpets, gold records or artists’ snapshots to discuss. No wonder its guests are so tempted to share their deepest feelings here.  

Gary smiles at Robbie when he enters. He looks as pleased as Robbie feels. ‘Good call, Rob?’

Rob nods as he sits down too. They’re suddenly sitting closer together than ever before; less than arm’s length away.

‘I think you were onto somethin’ earlier, Gaz. About last night’s performance, I mean. It must not have been as terrible as people on the internet were sayin’, cos me manager just said I’ve been asked to perform me single in London in November! That’s good a thing, right? It feels like a good thing.’ Rob laughs nervously. ‘I mean, I’ll probably be just as scared as I was last night, but it’s over a month away so hopefully I’ll feel a lot better about performing the fucking thing by the time I go on stage. And I suppose if I do make a tit of meself it’ll raise a lot of money for _Children in Need_. You know, make everyone laugh in between two miserable clips about sick children in Africa.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Gary straightens. He gives Robbie a quizzical look. ‘Did you just say you were asked to perform at _Children in Need_?’

‘I did, yeah.’

Gary shakes his head, then laughs to himself as though someone’s just made an inside joke. ‘That’s funny, cos I specifically asked them to leave it to me.’

‘Leave it to me?’ Rob shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. ‘What’d you mean by that?’

‘What I mean is _I’m_ the one organising the event. That’s what _my_ phone call was about. I was going to ask you to perform in person but then the whole X Factor thing happened and I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes anymore. I guess your manager must have gotten impatient cos I’m absolutely sure I told him to leave it to me. I wanted to keep it a surprise!’

Rob’s eyes go wide. ‘ _You’re_ the one organising the event, Gaz?’

‘I am, yeah.’

‘Isn’t that fucking difficult?’

‘Not at all. It’s mostly been really great, actually,’ Gary says proudly. ‘Every single artist I approached has said yes —’

‘Including _me_ ,’ Rob keenly intercedes, in case Gary wasn’t entirely sure that he would come.

‘— and I even managed to get Paul McCartney to show up as well, can you believe it? _We’re_ openin’ the show, obviously. Take That, that is. But I’m absolutely thrilled you’re coming too. I think it’d be really good for you, being a part of this. Have done since I began getting this whole thing together.’

Robbie feels himself fill up with pride. He had no idea that Gary had been organising such a prestigious event, no less consider _Robbie Williams_ of all artists. Gary must really see something in him after all.

Then it hits Rob. There’s something both Gary and his manager forgot to mention when they asked him to perform. ‘Hang on, though, will that be the first time we’ve ever been at an event together? I mean, you, me, and the lads? That could get awkward.’

Gary hadn’t even thought that. It _would_ be the first stage they’d ever shared. If Rob had released an album in 2007 rather than waiting for three years, their paths might have crossed a lot earlier.

‘I think so, now that you mention it,’ Gary says. ‘I hadn’t even thought of that, to be honest. _God_ , the press would have a field day, wouldn’t they? They’ll all be speculating whether we’re going to sing a song together that night.’

The thought of singing together hadn’t even crossed Rob’s mind, but now he can think of nothing else. He can actually feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end when he thinks about the five of them sharing a stage again. It would be the big event Gary has been talking about since day one.

‘Will we, Gaz? _Should_ we? I mean, it’s _your_ event. You could make it happen, right?’

Gary feels chills too. He can imagine it already, Take That and Robbie Williams singing _Never Forget_ together for the first time in over a decade. It’d be the one moment they’d always been waiting for; the one moment _he_ fought his depression for. A single photograph of the performance alone would raise a fortune.

Then again — it _is_ a charity event. A Take That reunion would make the night all about _them_ , not the children and families they’re meant to be raising money for.

And anyway, weren’t they meant to keep the reunion secret until the album is finished? Reuniting on stage prematurely would only jinx the whole thing.

‘I don’t know, Rob. To be honest, it wouldn’t really be the reunion I had in mind. Not to mention the pressure it’d put on the lot of us . . . You sure you’d be up for that? The cameras would be _all over us_ that night, and I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout the guys from the documentary. I mean everyone. That’s a lot to deal with for someone who hasn’t been seen in public for over three years,’ Gary adds, referring to the anxiousness Robbie said he feels on stage.

‘Like I said, Gaz. It _is_ over a month away,’ Robbie argues. He’s so excited about the prospect of performing with Take That that words keep flowing out at one hundred miles an hour. ‘I’ll be used to performing again then, and probably I won’t even notice the cameras anymore. Cos I _have_ improved, Gaz. I’m not so nervous any more thanks to you guys.’

‘I know you are,’ Gary agrees, ‘but we’re still talkin’ about a Take That reunion here. That’s not something we should plonk at the end of a charity event that isn’t even meant to be about us anyway.’

‘We _should_ do _something,_ though. We would do a medley! Like, all the nineties stuff. Maybe not _Babe_ , though. _’_

‘I agree we should do _something_ ,’ Gary says, ‘but we shouldn’t go out there singin’ _Everything Changes_ together either. It’s too soon. There has to be a real need for our comeback as a five-piece for it to work, and if you do it too soon it won’t have the same effect. Jay’s been saying the same thing for weeks.’

Gary’s argument makes sense, but their sharing the stage would still make an absolutely amazing moment in television. Do they really want to postpone that opportunity until the album is out?

‘What about Howard and Mark, then?’ Robbie asks. ‘How would _they_ feel about it?’

‘Knowing Mark, he’ll probably want to go out there guns blazing, dancers at all,’ Gary laughs. ‘Same with Howard. I still think we should save the proper reunion till later, though. I know artists are all about sharing every single bloody thing on social media these days, but I prefer the old-school method, me. Keep the fans guessin’ till the album announcement. It’s much, much better that way.’

That seems like a fair point. It makes Robbie wonder about Take That’s first ever performance as a four-piece, and he asks Gary whether he still remembers where that was.

Gary replies that he can’t really remember. ‘It must’ve either been on television or during the comeback tour, I think. Back in 2006. Feels like a century ago now.’

Rob knows the tour; he’s seen the videos on YouTube. ‘What was that tour like? ’

Gary lets out a deep sigh. ‘It wasn’t good, Rob. Not at first, anyway.’

‘Why?

As if the question brings back bad memories, Gary looks down to stare at his own slender hands. Robbie’s eyes immediately follow his gaze, and he hates himself for it. Why does his mind have to keep reminding him how soft those hands were, and why does he want to do so much more to them?

‘What made it difficult is that I’d spent _years_ not singin’ at all,’ Gary replies. ‘Not even for fun. I was fucking terrified of entering a concert venue and finding out that me voice had completely disappeared or something. And it wasn’t _really_ until we got the old band back together and Kim and Mark started comin’ up with all these ideas for the tour that I found me voice again. I think we all just needed a moment when we felt reassured that we weren’t going to mess it all up. I know for Mark that moment came when we went into dress rehearsals. That’s when it became real.’

‘When did that happen for you?’

Gary blushes. He still remembers it clearly. The moment _he_ felt at ease with being in Take That again was when he saw the hologram Robbie had made for _Could It Be Magic_ , but he’s not going to tell Rob that. Instead, he mumbles something about things finally coming together when he put on his fur jacket for _Relight_.

The boys spend ten more minutes talking about the _Ultimate Tour_ , but eventually the conversation strays back to the charity event Gary is organising. How on Earth are Take That and Robbie Williams meant to appear at the exact same event without people finding out the band are back together?

‘So we’re not going to sing together at the Royal Albert Hall, then?’ Rob asks Gary again, just to make sure. ‘I mean, it’s _your_ charity event. You could do anything you want.’

Gary laughs. ‘Not _everything_.’

‘But you could let us perform together? Hypothetically?’

‘I could, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to. The BBC would think I’m tryin’ to advertise the band too much, anyway. It’s not meant to become a Take That concert.’

‘Not even a chorus, though? _Back For Good_? _I’ll_ sing it if _you_ don’t.’

Gary chuckles. Robbie’s enthusiasm is cute – and understandable given that the world doesn’t know the band is back together –, but Gary’s not going to give in to him.

‘We’re not going to sing _Back For Good_ , Rob.’

‘No?’

‘No. Mind you, I do agree we should do _something_ ,’ Gary says. ‘Like a handover of the stage if you happen to be performing right after us, which I could probably arrange for us. I’m sure the others would say the same thing once I tell them you’re on the bill too.’

Gary looks at the clock. It’s half three. Nearly fifty minutes have passed since Gary told Rob about his own troubled past, and their bandmates still haven’t come back from their visits to Nothing Hill. It’s as if they’ve forgotten they were supposed to spend the rest of the day in the studio.  

‘ _If_ the others are still comin’ back, that is,’ Gary huffs. ‘They’ve been away for ages. Do you think I wasn’t clear enough when I told them we’d be taking a thirty-minute break? I was hoping to finish that song you brought in this morning . . .’

‘Should we call them? Maybe something’s happened.’

Calling the others is tempting, but the lads aren’t exactly known for answering their phones, and Gary was rather enjoying being alone with Rob anyway. It’s as if the reveal of Gary’s biggest secret has made it more comfortable to be around each other.

So, rather than waiting for the others, Gary keenly suggests they keep writing on their own in the lounge. They end up writing enough lyrics to fill three separate songs, and they have so much fun together that they never even stop to consider that maybe – just _maybe_ – their mates have left them alone for a reason.  
  
  
THURSDAY EVENING – OCTOBER 2009 – LONDON – A BEDROOM

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but Mark’s back in the flower field of his dreams again. The colours are just as vibrant and the flowers just as beautiful. Like last night’s visit, and the night before, the lyrics of a whimsical song are written in the sky in a gracious, beautiful hand that isn’t Mark’s.

Fluffy, white, and soft, the words look almost like clouds. Perhaps they _are_ just clouds, but that doesn’t stop Mark from wanting to touch the lyrics till they fit inside his palm like a nineties cassette.

Mark tries reaching the words like he did last time, but he’s not tall enough, and the sky won’t come closer down. The lyrics remain as they are, unknown and undecipherable to the naked eye.

He’s tired, but it doesn’t stop Mark from trying something different. He follows the field of flowers for miles and miles and miles, confident that the field will one moment curve into a hill and the hill will lead him to a mountain in touching distance of the sky. It doesn’t. The technicolour world remains completely flat.

The lyrics taunt Mark. They frustrate him. They make up the song that Mark’s always wanted to write, and yet he finds it impossible to string them together. No matter how hard he tries, the empty page where Mark’s lyrics are supposed to go remains achingly empty.

Mark stirs in his sleep, and the field of flowers becomes hazy. The world shakes. Dazed, he feels himself being dragged to the ground as the lyrics turn into dust. He desperately tries to reach out one last time, but it’s already too late. The words fade from the sky, and when Mark wakes up in the middle of the night he finds the notebook in his lap still as empty as ever.

***

At the other side of the city, Gary’s having a much more pleasant evening. He finished not one but two backing tracks for the brand new album, and he was so pleased with himself that he decided to treat himself to a Star Wars DVD in the evening.  

Two hours later, at twelve precisely, the end credits of the film start rolling. Tired but content, Gary quickly hops into the shower, gets changed, brushes his teeth, and crawls into bed with his grey pyjamas on. He’s already decided that he’s going to send the others his brand new backing tracks first thing in the morning.

He falls asleep quickly. His arms reach out into the open space of the bed as though his dream-self wishes someone else were there, and he very nearly starts dreaming about Robbie in an orange Rebellion suit when he, too, starts awake.

He thinks he’s dreaming it at first, but his smartphone is ringing. He wants it to stop, but it doesn’t. It’s loud — louder than anything he’s ever heard. It goes on and on and on until Gary has no choice but to reach out for his phone on the bedside cabinet and pick up, groggy and disoriented.

‘This better be important,’ he huffs into the receiver. He hadn’t bothered checking the display to see who’s on the other line.

‘Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry, Gaz. Please tell me I didn’t wake you.’

Gary mellows instantly. He straightens and turns the bedside lamp on. It’s Rob, calling him in the middle of the night!

He attempts to sound happy and awake. He only manages the former, but Rob doesn’t know Gary well enough yet to notice the pretend.

‘No, not at all, mate. Just thought you were one of those annoying telemarketers, is all, Rob. I wasn’t planning on going to bed until much later.’

On the other line, Rob breathes a big sigh of relief. ‘Oh, good. I hadn’t really checked what time it is, to be honest.’

‘That’s all right. So for what do I owe this pleasure then?’

Robbie breathes a deep sigh, and it’s only now that Gary notices that his crush sounds a little troubled. ‘I guess I just really needed someone to talk to, and I — well, I couldn’t get a hold of Mark and Jay. Not that you’re me last resort or anything, but — yeah. I needed someone to talk to.’

This makes Gary sit straight in his bed. All his alarm bells go off. What could be so bad that Rob has to talk to someone at one o’clock in the morning?

‘That sounds kinda serious, mate. Is everything all right over there?’

Gary thinks back to the early nineties, when Rob went to his first ever party as a member of Take That and things got so out of hand that he begged Gary to come pick him up. Immediately after, Rob grudgingly huffed that the only reason he reached out to Gary at the time was because Gary was the only member of the band who had a mobile phone _and_ a car.

‘Do you need me to come and pick you up somewhere or . . .?’

Rob laughs. He’s not so troubled after all, then. ‘I’m in the middle of Germany, so probably not, mate. It’s just this fucking gig I’m doin’ tomorrow. I’m meant to be performin’ a few songs in Berlin and I’m bloody dreadin’ it. I thought I’d be less nervous about singin’ in public by now, but I’m _not_ , Gaz. I’m not. It’s two in the fucking morning and I can’t even sleep.’

‘The X Factor performance you did a while back isn’t still eatin’ you up, is it?’ Gary says. ‘Cos you really have to move on from that, mate. Especially now that I’ve officially asked you to join _Children in Need_.’

Rob’s reply comes quickly. ‘It isn’t. I’ve moved on. I’ve even followed your advice and not looked meself up online for three weeks, but that doesn’t stop me from bein’ absolutely terrified that I’m gonna fuck it all up in front of me fans tomorrow.’

Gary can see where Rob’s coming from, but it’s hard to offer advice when it’s this late, and he hasn’t really experienced stage fright since the band came back. His fear of performing disappeared the moment the Ultimate Tour started, and Robbie knows that story already.

(The fact that he’s talking to Rob whilst in bed isn’t really helping either, and Gary unconsciously pulls up his bedsheets even though Rob is hundreds of miles away.)

He tries a different tact. He tries to talk Robbie into thinking the performance isn’t a big deal.

‘You said you were performing in front of fans, didn’t you, Rob? As in, you won’t be singin’ in front of an audience like _X Factor_ ’s where most people are more interested in the contestants.’

Rob utters an affirmative sound. His Berlin concert will be attended to by hard-core fans only.

‘Then what are you so afraid of? These fans _know_ you, right? They won’t mind if you mess it up, and if they did they probably wouldn’t even _be_ there anyway. They’d have moved on from you years ago. But they haven’t, is what I’m saying. They’re still there, sticking up for you no matter what.

‘And anyway, mate, you’ve been a performer for twenty years, you have. You know your way round a stage better than anyone else. There’s no need for you to be this nervous, there really isn’t.’

Silence at the other end of the line.

‘Rob, you still there?’

Rob utters his next words as though someone’s just roused him awake. ‘Yeah, sorry. I’m listenin’. I’d just never thought of it like that, to be honest, of the fans bein’ there for me. Then again, I usually don’t think about it much at all. You know what I mean? I usually give in to me anxiety before it can catch up with me, and I’m absolutely terrified that I’m gonna do it tomorrow and just not show up. And I feel kinda cool about the performance in Berlin _now_ , but what if it happens again next month? What if it happens for _Children in Need_ and I end up skipping it and letting everyone down?’

‘You won’t miss _Children in Need_ , Rob,’ Gary assures him. ‘Trust me. If you even think about skipping it I’m gonna drag you out of your hotel meself.’

‘As if!’ Rob laughs, and it sounds like sunshine. ‘You’d never do something that dramatic, Gaz.’

‘I would, you know! Bring James and Paul, get the entire hotel staff involved . . .’

‘Just to get me to perform at the Royal Albert Hall?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s a lot of effort to go through for one artist.’

‘Maybe I just really like seeing you perform, Rob . . .’

Unconsciously, Gary places his hand on the curve of his stomach; hoping, almost, that their conversation will lead to something more than just a friendly reassurance. Rob's gorgeous, raspy voice alone is titillating enough.

Then he remembers what they were discussing in the first place. Hoping he doesn’t sound vaguely turned on, Gary tries to leave Rob with a final piece of advice.

‘In all seriousness, though, Rob, there’s a lot you can do if you ever seriously feel anxious about performing. Whenever _we’re_ doing a particularly important performance I just remind meself that I’ve been doin’ live performances since I was fifteen, and that usually makes me feel a lot better, that does. It’s the same for you, mate. I know why doing a full-length concert might freak you out right now, but you’ve been doin’ it since the nineties, Rob. That’s plenty of time to get over your stage fright. You’ll be fine, honest.’

Again, Rob takes his time before answering. In the background, Gary thinks he can hear the sound of a television, and he imagines Robbie in a warm, expensive hotel room, watching telly from his bed. In his mind’s eye, Robbie’s wearing a sleeveless top and boxers, all perfectly hidden by pristine silk sheets.

When Robbie speaks again, Gary imagines the sheets slipping off his shoulders.

‘You’re right, Gaz, I _have_ been doin’ this for a long time, haven’t I? Nearly all me fucking life . . . I don’t think I ever got this nervous when I was sixteen, actually. It’s only recently that me anxiety got this bad. Recently being the past three years, I mean. It’s a fucking nightmare. I wish I were less tall so I could hide behind Howard on the next tour.’

Gary lies down a little more comfortably. Now that Rob’s issue has more or less been dealt with, his body becomes tired. He feels drowsy. His mind’s eye fills him with hazy images that are nothing like the real world.

‘D’you know what, mate, I don’t think any of us were nervous back then, we were so full of energy,’ Gary says. He has to stifle a yawn. ‘You can’t really get nervous if you don’t know what to be nervous about, and we only really did school assemblies when we started out anyway.

‘And besides — we were mostly doing it for a laugh, weren’t we, Rob? It was just a load of fun, back then. Most of it was, anyway. All the label politics wasn’t so great.’

Rob utters a sound of agreement. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right about that, Gaz. I never really took it very seriously in the nineties, to be honest. It didn’t even feel like a proper job.’

‘Still doesn’t,’ Gary chimes in. He’s still listening, but he sounds tired. ‘It just feels like a hobby that got out of hand.’

‘Isn’t it much better the second time round, though?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Gary says. Yawning, he unconsciously moves his fingers to the hem of his pyjama trousers. He's too close to the world of dreams to be aware of doing it. ‘A conversation like the one we’re having right now, that was never even possible back then. We were all just too young and selfish. _I_ was, anyway.

‘But these days, I want nothing else. I love things like askin’ what everyone did during the weekend or how their kids are doing. It’s bloody great. I can’t believe that six or seven years went by in the nineties and I’d never even had a proper chat with anyone.’

Maybe it’s only the late hour of the day allowing him to speak more freely, but Robbie suddenly starts talking a lot, and for a very long time. It’s like Gary’s words have tempted him into being honest too.

‘Same here, Gaz. I used to hate talkin’ about me feelings, but these past few weeks have really made me realise how important it is — especially when you’re in a band and you’re constantly breathing down each other’s necks. You know what I mean? It’s been really eye-opening to see how warmly and emphatically you guys respond to each other’s doubts and insecurities. Sometimes I think you do more talking than writing!

‘It’s been great, though. I can’t believe how kind you’ve all been to me. Especially you, Gaz. When we started this album I never thought I’d enjoy talkin’ to you this much, but I do, Gaz. I do. I genuinely look forward to our chats now, and I can’t help but feel like we share some sort of deeper connection now that we’ve shared our anxieties, if you know what I mean. It’s fucking amazing to know that there are other people who’ve been through what _I’m_ goin’ through, and I’m dead thankful that you invited me for _Children in Need_ cos I feel like I really needed that kind of validation.

‘I just wish me body would catch on with me, cos I still get this weird feelin’ inside me stomach every time you look at me and it does me fucking head in, Gaz. You know what I mean? It’s like me body still gets nervous when we’re in the same room together.’

Rob stops to catch his breath, and it’s only now that Rob realises that Gary isn’t listening. In fact, Gary hasn’t been listening for the past three minutes because _he’s sleeping._  

Rob lets out a nervous laugh. ‘Gaz? _Gaz_.’ Nothing. Gary’s actively snoring into Rob’s right ear. ‘Did you just fall asleep in the middle of me story?’

No response. Gary’s fast asleep. He didn’t hear a single thing of what Rob was saying, but perhaps that’s a good thing. If Gary had actually heard what Rob was saying about him, he might be tricked into thinking Rob loved him.

Robbie didn’t wittingly intend his words that way, however, so he hangs up the phone without much further ado. He was just telling Gary how glad he was to have him in the band, that’s all. There’s nothing strange or romantic about it at all, and the weird, fluttery feeling in his stomach is just the result of bad food. He’ll have forgotten what he told Gary this time tomorrow.

(He does make a mental note to make fun of Gaz for falling asleep like that when they meet again next week, though.)

Reassured, Rob quietly retreats to his king-sized bed in his hotel room. Within seconds, he too drifts off into a pleasant sleep filled with dreams about his bandmates, and the next morning he wakes up with a smile on his face. Rob foolishly believes it’s because he’s genuinely excited about his gig in Berlin, but he couldn’t be more wrong.

The smile is Gary’s doing.  
  



	2. Curious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charity events! Lightsaber innuendo! Mark being a big Robbie/Gary shipper! Nothing bad happens and everyone lives happily ever after! *snickers*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments so far. Some people have pointed out little errors here and there, which was super helpful! I originally started writing this story in May '17 and have been editing it ever since, so there are probably quite a few errors/inaccuracies that my eyes are no longer capable of spotting. If you see anything weird, please let me know.

1995 – FEBRUARY – LONDON – ON THE ROAD  
  
_Mark’s crying. I can’t remember why. Then it hits me. Rob left. Or rather, we sacked him. We let him go because it was the easy thing to do. Sack Rob, save the sanctity of the band. Keep him, ruin our image. It sounds cruel, and it is, but that’s just how things go in this industry. You have to cut out the weed and the crap in order to keep growing. With Rob, we’d stopped growing months ago._

_Of course, this is just what I’ve been telling everyone. Letting Rob go was the right choice, it was. We’ll carry on as a four, no problem. We still have_ years _’ worth of music to offer, I say to everyone._

_Deep down, I feel as shit as everyone else. It’s easy to pretend I don’t care about anyone, but it’s harder to admit I fucking miss Rob already. He might’ve been a bloody prick to me, but Rob’s still the only person I ever loved, and the one thing in the world I don’t know how to put into words._

_I’m supposed to write love songs for a living, but when it comes to Rob I still haven’t got a clue how to describe how I feel. It’s like when I see him me entire world comes back into focus and all I wanna do is hold his hand and cuddle him. All he has to do was walk into the bloody room, and I feel like me heart is about to burst out of me chest._

_There’s nothing I can do about it, though. Nothing I_ could. _Rob doesn’t like me back. I’ve known that for years._

_As much as I wish I was, I’m not funny, like Rob. I’m not handsome or smart. I’m not sexy. I’m hardly anything – I’m just the fat guy in the back and the wreckage Rob left in his wake. I’m the guy who’s meant to keep this ship afloat, but I don’t know_ how _when all I can think of is how we’re probably never gonna see Rob again._ I _won’t, anyway. Rob will probably keep in touch with Mark, but I can’t see him wanting to stay in touch with the rest of us._

_And you know what – I can’t say I blame him. Cos as much as I wanted to_ be _with Rob,_ I _was still more important. It’s_ my _voice that mattered most, not Rob’s._ I _had to be centre stage, not him, and it’s probably why Robbie lost his way like that lately, going to parties and performing with Oasis and hooking up with people_ I _could never be. He’d given up on himself long before the rest of us had._

_But the Take That machine keeps going at one hundred miles an hour, so I eventually I stop worrying. Rob becomes no more than a blip in me mind as someone tells Mark to man up and we’re all pushed into a van by James and Paul. I don’t know where we’re going, just that it’s a long drive down a bumpy road._

_By the time we arrive, Mark’s stopped sobbing, and I’ve somehow convinced meself I never loved Rob after all. We’re better off without him, we are. We don’t need him, and never did. Rob was just another cog in a machine that hardly functioned._  
  
  
1991 – OCTOBER – LEEDS – A THREE-STAR HOTEL  
  
_There’s a fan in me bedroom. She’s bloody gorgeous, and she’ll probably tell her mates I loved her right in the morning, but I don’t love her. I don’t even like her, really. She’s just pretty._

_I did enjoy sleeping with the girl, but I’m not sure if this is what I_ _want for meself. Or rather,_ who _I want. Throughout the evening I kept thinking about HIM, and even now that the girl’s asleep next to me still I’m not entirely convinced I’m actually attracted to her._

_And it’s not that I wish I was_ him _and that I wanna kiss the girls he’s_ _kissing – it’s that I want to kiss_ him _, more like. I wanna kiss Robbie. I wish it was Rob’s hands that were touching me prick earlier, not this girl’s._

_I don’t even know when it started, really. One moment Rob’s just an insufferable lad I don’t really know that well, and the next moment me heart starts bloody hammering whenever he’s around. It’s bloody annoying. I bet the other lads have noticed as well; I always get bright red when Rob talks to me, like a child._

_And you know what – I don’t even mind that I’ve ended up fancying another boy. It’s more accepted nowadays, and I’ve always sort into that sort of thing anyway. I always had a feeling I was going to end up with a boy rather than a girl – even though I love both._

_Did it really have to be_ him _, though_? _Why not Mark? Or Howard? Howard’s handsome. Jay, too. But Rob — I don’t know about him. I don’t know_ anything _about him, really. He’s just a colleague. I can’t love him, I don’t think. I can’t love anyone who looks at me like Rob does._  
  
  
2008 – NOVEMBER – LONDON – GARY’S HOUSE   
  
_I don’t know what Mark was thinking, all right, but for some reason he’s decided to arrange a meeting between me and Rob. As in, Robbie Williams, the guy I haven’t thought about for years._

_I didn’t even know Mark was still in touch with Rob, but then again the only thing I know about Robbie Williams is all the crap I read about him in the press. The newspapers still seem to think a full reunion is a possibility, but I don’t. Not anymore._

_He’s just not a conscious presence in me life, Rob isn’t. We’re all happy. We don’t need him – and Rob doesn’t need_ us _, I don’t think –, but Mark’s gone and sent him a bloody e-mail anyway. Something about me wanting to go to a football match with him, which I don’t. I don’t want to do anything with Rob._

_Cos I may not love him anymore, but the thought of seeing Rob again still makes me heart burst. I don’t think I could handle it. All I’d be thinking of is how much I wanted Robbie in the nineties and much he hated me in return._

_I was too keen on me own place in the band to ever tell him, but I wanted Rob almost as badly as I did success. He was everything, but to him I was nothing. While_ I _was busy daydreaming about making love to him, he’d take yet another girl up to his bedroom. I could look, but not touch. Not ever. I learned that quickly._

_I don’t think seeing Rob will fix anything, though, if there’s even something left to fix. I know Mark probably means well, but all a reunion will do is bring back bad memories I wish never happened in the first place._  
  
  
2008 – NOVEMBER – LONDON – EMIRATES STADIUM  
  
_Do you know what? Today was special. Really special. I didn’t think it would be, but it was. Tremendously. From the moment Rob and I met again, I simultaneously felt like I’d finally gotten over him and like things were only getting started. I no longer felt like he was a bad part of my past that I’d tried way too hard to forget, but like he was a friend I could get to know again._

_Instantly, I wanted to go back into the studio with him and write. I wanted to get him alone and write the best song of our careers. I always thought me, Mark, Howard and Jay would be a four-piece forever, but now that I’ve been in the same room with Rob I can’t stop thinking about how good recording an album with him would be . . ._

__  
FRIDAY – NOVEMBER 2009 - LONDON – ROYAL ALBERT HALL   
  
The first thing Rob notices when he enters the stage door of the iconic Royal Albert Hall is the sense of community. Instantly, you can tell that this is an event for charity, not for personal gain. There isn’t a single performer who thinks they’re above someone else, not even the artists with multi-million-record deals or countless hits to their name.

For here, in the catacombs of this historic London venue, everyone is equal. Everyone matters, even the people the audience at home can’t see. There’s the assistant producer who runs the event in Gary’s stead; Cheryl Cole, on the back of her first-ever solo single; Pudsey; fans and supporters; a choir; Lily Allen, who was too fond of _Shine_ , and finally, not four but five members of Take That.

Robbie Williams and Take That have separate dressing rooms as per Gary’s request, but Rob’s hardly been in his. They all got dressed separately so that their evening would not be a repeat of their evening playing football in New York, but the moment Rob put on his suit he immediately joined the lads at the other end of the corridor. He’s been there for the past fifteen minutes, just taking everything in and feeling more at ease than ever.

Tonight, Take That are set to open the show with _Greatest Day_. Immediately after, Robbie Williams will take to the stage to perform _Bodies_ , and then every other act will perform one or two tracks of their own until the entire cast comes back for an encore of _Hey Jude_. It seems simple, but it isn’t: even now, the boys still haven’t agreed about whether the five of them should share the stage or not.

Ever the realist, Jay thinks they shouldn’t. According to him, having Take That and Robbie Williams on the same stage together would be sickeningly exhibitionistic. (Not to mention the fact that it would take away the spotlight from the very children they’re trying to raise money for. Do they really want to have their faces all over the papers tomorrow?)

Mark thinks they _should_ share the stage, but then again he’s been ready to break into a “nineties” Take That medley since the band got back together. (As has Howard, especially if they ended up singing _Never Forget_.) 

As for Rob, he’s willing to go along with whatever Gary tells him to because _he’s_ the one organising the event. By now, Rob’s convinced that Gary is the member of Take That who knows best. (And he does.)

Eventually, Gary suggests the band just do their own thing, announce Rob, _hand over the stage_ , maybe stop for a quick word and a hug (but nothing serious), then allow Rob perform _Bodies_ on his own. There won’t be any singing together — just a quick handover of the stage, that’s all. Keep it simple and save the real reunion for next year.  

‘And if the press do decide to run articles about it tomorrow then that’s fine, but we shouldn’t make a big moment out of it ourselves, I don’t think,’ Gary says in their dressing room. With there not being enough sofas for the five of them, he’s standing in the middle of the room in a black suit that fits him _perfectly_. (Not that Rob was _looking_ or anything.)

(Okay, maybe he was.)

‘This meeting alone, this is enough, this,’ Gary goes on. ‘We’re not announcing anything, we’re just saying, “Hey, we’re friends again now. Watch this space.” It’s as simple as that. I don’t think we’ll want to go out there guns blazing yet. Let’s save the official announcement for later, like we used to.’

It’s a good argument, and it seems to have changed Jay’s mind completely.

‘I hate to say this, but I’ve been talked around, as per usual,’ Jason admits. ‘You’re absolutely right, lads, it _would_ be ludicrous if we didn’t do anything, but I also agree with Gaz that we shouldn’t overcomplicate things. This handing over of the stage seems like the most logical, safest option we have.’ 

‘Thing is, though, we’re gonna be on the same stage for the finale anyway,’ Gary adds. ‘And I’ll be honest, guys, I did absolutely hate the idea sharing the stage at first, but you know what, we might as well. It’d be much weirder if we _didn’t_ with how much interest there has been lately. This way we give people what we want without giving too much away.’

‘And we don’t really wanna upstage Paul McCartney, do we?’ Howard says.

‘No, we don’t,’ Gary laughs. His eyes flick at Rob, who’s been listening to everyone’s arguments with much interest. ‘What do _you_ think, Rob? I know you wanted to sing together when we talked about this a few weeks ago.’

‘No, I agree with you, Gaz,’ Rob nods. ‘If you say we should do it like this, then I trust you, mate. _You’re_ in charge, after all.’

Then the young, cheeky version of Rob kicks in when he remembers their phone call a fortnight ago, the one Gary fell asleep in. He wouldn’t have dreamt of making fun of Gary a month ago, but he thinks he can finally get away with it. ‘I mean, as long as you don’t fall asleep in the middle of it, Gaz. Then we’ll probably be all right.’

Gary turns red. He instantly knows what Rob’s talking about. ‘I’ve told you, Rob, I didn’t fall asleep!’

‘You did, Gaz. I heard you snoring.’

Howard and Mark exchange quick, curious looks. ‘Fall asleep during _what_ , Gaz?’ Howard asks, and he manages to make it sound so suggestive that Mark has to nudge him with his elbow, hard.

Gary waves his hand in the air like it’s not a particularly interesting subject. ‘It’s nothing special, mate. Just something that happened between me and Rob, is all.’

But Rob disagrees. He _loves_ this story. ‘So you don’t wanna share that you fell asleep in the middle of our phone call one night, then, Gaz?’

Howard raises an eyebrow. ‘What was you calling each other in the middle of the night for?’ (Another elbow jab from Mark.)

‘Oh, you know, stuff. _Children in Need_ and so on,’ Gary quickly blurts out. He doesn’t want to tell the others that they were actually talking about their respective fears about being on stage. ‘But I hadn’t fallen _asleep_ , Rob. I’d just gone out to get something to drink for meself, is all. When I came back you’d already hung up.’

‘You were still fucking snoring, though, Gaz,’ Rob points out, tongue in cheek, and Gary doesn’t know what he hates more: being teased by Rob like it’s the nineties all over again or _how much he loves it_.

‘Isn’t there a performance you need to get really nervous for, Rob?’ Gary jibes in return, and they fire light-hearted insults at each other until one of the show’s assistant producers shows up. She reminds the boys that the show is about to begin, and all five of them get up from their seats and head to the door. As one, they slowly make their way backstage: Robbie Williams _and_ Take that, separate and yet perfectly together.

This is progress, indeed.

***

Less than twelve hours from now, Gary will wake up alone. His naked body will be aching with the strain of a dozen bruises on his thighs.

Gary will first struggle to recall where he got the bruises. Then he’ll feel proud, and chuffed. He had a good night. He finally did what he’s always wanted to do, and it doesn’t matter that he’s bruised and slightly hungover and that his entire world is still spinning in the aftermath.

But as he’s walking the crowded corridors of the Royal Albert Hall in London, Gary has no idea what’s about to happen to him. He planned and organised this charity event to the smallest, least significant detail, but he could never have predicted what might happen after. He could never have guessed what’s waiting for him inside his living room. Even the planner in him won’t see this coming.  

The only thing Gary Barlow knows for sure if that he’s about to perform with his favourite people in the world and that Rob will briefly join them afterwards. They won’t be singing together or making a grand speech about the brand new album, but they _will_ be doing something far more significant: they’ll finally acknowledge each other. They’ll grow up at last.

Essentially, this handover is Gary and Robbie saying that they’re friends again. They’ve buried the hatchets of the past and can look each other in the eye again.

It’s the one moment the press has been waiting for since the comeback, and it shows: down the corridor to the stage, nearly every single journalist has queued up to talk to the boys and bombard them with a thousand questions that have nothing to do with _Children in Need_.

_Have you got anything to say to the millions of Take That fans watching this at home?_

_Are you planning anything special tonight?_

_Have you spoken to Robbie?_

_Will you be singing_ Back For Good _together?_

Mark, Howard, and Jason manage to slip away from the journalists quite easily, but Robbie’s less lucky. Eventually, things get so bad that Rob gets separated from the other lads and all he can see all around him is microphones and cameras pointed right at him, including the ones from the Take That documentary.

Only Gary managed to stay close. He gives Rob a meaningful look from across the sea of cameras as if to ask him whether he needs any saving, but Rob replies with a curt, brave nod. He thinks he can handle the journalists on his own now, and he will. He does. It’s like being a popstar is a bike he’s getting back on, and he does it _admirably._

He answers the questions with humour and wit. He laughs. He smiles. He’s no longer afraid. He jibes that his next performance will be “one percent better” than the one he did on the _X Factor_ , and whenever he catches his reflection in a camera he sees someone who’s completely enamoured with the world and everyone inside it.

By the time Rob answers his final question he feels like the superstar who wrote about angels and toured the world has finally descended back into his body, and he privately wonders why. Why could he not feel like this last year? Or during his most recent tour? Or more realistically, when he performed _Bodies_ and fucked it up last month?

He doesn’t know. Apart from him joining Take That, nothing’s changed. He didn’t alter his meds or scored a number one single or ate more vegetables. He’s the same person he’s always been, and yet he feels like something around him has fundamentally changed his outlook on his career. He feels better and happier, and it’s going to take a desperate break-up for him to realise that the reason has always been Gaz.

***

While Rob deals with the press, Take That enter the backstage area. Instantly, the mood changes. Mark stops blabbering about the song he dreamt about. Jason looks solemn and thoughtful. The guys filming the Take That documentary don’t know whether to focus the camera on the general storm of activity backstage or zoom in on Howard checking his microphone. Take That’s manager, Jonathan Wild, looks slightly worried about something.

Gary doesn’t look worried or nervous in the slightest, but then again he keeps reminding himself this is just an ordinary performance. It’s nothing special. Over the next couple of minutes, it’s every act for themselves, and business as usual. As long as Rob shows up when Gary calls his name, Take That’s main priority is getting through _Greatest Day_ and having a good time.

It’s three minutes to the start of the show. The boys give each other a warm, affectionate group hug, and by the time they let go Robbie shows up. He looks surprisingly happy, and Gary privately wishes he’d shown up sooner so he could have been a part of the group hug too.

Instead, Gary has to make do with Rob shaking everyone’s hands to wish them good luck. Rob’s fingers linger on Gary’s skin for a second longer than they should, and it makes Gary turn so impossibly red that Howard, who knows Gary likes Rob, decides to tease him for it.

‘You okay, Gaz?’ Howard asks tongue-in-cheek. ‘You look a bit feverish . . .’

‘It’s just hot down here, is all,’ Gary mumbles.

‘It _is_ , isn’t it, Gaz?’ Mark’s quick to agree. He shoots a brief glance at Rob, who thankfully seems oblivious to the fact that he’s the reason why Gary’s face suddenly resembles a tomato. ‘Very hot.’

‘ _Is_ it, though?’ Howard asks. ‘I think it’s quite chilly, actually.’

‘No, it’s hot in ‘ere,’ Mark objects, like it’s an actual fact of life that the Royal Albert Hall is extremely toasty inside. He quickly changes the subject before Howard can say anything else. ‘So are you excited about your performance later then, Rob?’

‘More so than usual, yeah,’ Robbie replies. He doesn’t notice Gary giving Howard an angry glare in the corner of his eye. ‘Especially with what I know is comin’.’

‘You’re not going to run on stage during _Greatest Day_ , are you?’

‘Probably not. No. I only know the lyrics to the chorus, anyway. I’m shit at lyrics in general, though. Even me own. I swear to God I still don’t know the lyrics to _Angels_. _Angels_ , Mark,’ he adds for emphasis, because everyone knows how big _Angels_ was and still is. ‘I’m a fucking wreck.’

Howard looks shocked. He forgets he ever wanted to tease Gary for blushing. ‘You don’t know the lyrics to _Angels_? Wasn’t you number one all over the world with that one?’

Rob gives a solemn shake of his head before pedantically pointing out that _Angels_ only peaked at number four in the UK, like it makes any difference. ‘A lot of people want it played at their funeral, though, did you know that?’

A second later, the boys are pulled out of their conversation. Another assistant producer shows up to tell them the show is about to start, and before they know it the Take That boys are ushered through the thin black curtain to the opening bars of _Greatest Day._

While Mark, Howard, and Jason have already made their way to the stage, Gary hasn’t — he just _has_ to give Rob’s shoulder a quick, imperceptible squeeze before he leaves. It makes Rob turn terribly red, but Gary will never know: by the time he can turn around to give Rob another look, the curtains have already closed behind him.

The moment Gary sees the crowd, he becomes his professional, unattached self again. He sings his socks off. He works the crowd.

Take That have performed this song over a hundred or more, and it shows. They’re good. They get the audience on their feet like no one ever has, and yet the performance couldn’t be less important. It’s the next part of the show that matters most — not _Greatest Day_. _Greatest Day_ is just a step-up to the moment journalists and Take That fans alike have been waiting for since 1995. 

This is it. _Greatest Day_ ends. The audience applauds, and Gary can almost feel them thinking it: where’s Robbie Williams, your former bandmate? Where is he hiding and when will we be able to see him?

Backstage, Rob’s waiting for his cue. He’s been singing along to _Greatest Day_ as best as he could, shouting every lyric he knows at the top of his lungs and not caring that the boys from the documentary were filming him. He’s still bloody terrified inside, but he’s ready. He needs this. He conquered his fears and performed _Bodies_ in a dozen foreign cities just so he’d be ready for this one handover.

The crowd is still going wild in the aftermath of _Greatest Day_. Leftover pieces of ticker tape flutter down the sky like technicolour rain. The tension is rising. Journalists clutch their cameras tight to their chests, ready to make that million-pound photograph of Robbie Williams finally embracing his friends.

‘Thank you _so_ much,’ Gary says, and the crowd goes silent. It’s like everyone in the audience already knows what’s about to happen even though no-one told them anything. ‘What a beautiful place we’re in tonight. And what a great audience we’ve got all the way around us!’

The crowd cheers at the brief recognition, and the distraction marks a perfect opening for the next announcement. Gary’s heart starts racing just thinking about it.

From his vantage point behind the thin black curtain backstage, Rob can see Gary and Mark briefly looking in his direction. They look as excited as Robbie feels, and his heart starts beating faster too. This is it!

‘It’s a lovely occasion for us to be on this stage for Children in Need tonight,’ Gary goes on. He sounds like a true professional, like he rehearsed these words all night. He has.

Then Gary pauses. He leaves just enough time for the crowd to keep wondering. He nearly stumbles over his next words, but the crowd don’t notice; they’re all looking in the direction Take That came in, wondering if any moment now Robbie Williams will show up.

‘And what a perfect time for us . . .’

A Take That fan on the second row takes a sharp intake of breath.

A woman clutches her purse, ready to get out her phone in case she needs to take a photo of something she’ll want to show her friends at work the next day.

A lonesome piece of ticker tape reaches Robbie’s feet.

This is it. Gary’s beaming with pride by just saying it.

‘. . . To introduce an old friend . . .’ 

Gary doesn’t have to say anything else, because there’s only one person he could be referring to. Gary calls out Robbie’s name, and the people in the audience cheer that follows is so deafening that Rob can barely feel his legs when he pushes through the thin black curtain.

Miraculously, Rob's legs no longer feel wobbly once he enters the stage. He briefly acknowledges the cheering crowd, then starts hugging his bandmates: first Jay, then Howard, then Mark (who gives Rob a quick peck on the cheek when the journalists aren't looking), and then Gary Barlow.

Gary is the hug that feels the longest of all. It isn't really – in reality, the hug only lasts three seconds –, but it feels like it lasts a century. In that one infinitesimal moment, everything is magnified: Gary's smell, the titillating stubble that scrapes against Rob's skin, the hands on his body. It's like Rob is watching the moment through a magnifying lens and he's suddenly aware of everything, even the look Gary gives him next.

It shouldn't mean anything, but it does, to Rob. Gary's look is the single most important answer to all the questions the world has been throwing at him, and yet he doesn’t understand it. He doesn't know what the look means yet — just that time suddenly speeds up again as his mates are beginning to leave him.

Robbie’s latest single starts, but Rob doesn't want it to. He pointlessly begs his mates to stay for a little longer, but they don't; they're already leaving the stage, as they promised they would. It’s over. The only thing that remains is the bud of excitement in Rob’s soul and the imprint of Gary’s hands still on his sides.

While the long-awaited moment may have passed, it's everything the audience needed, and everything Robbie needed too. Take That have reunited at last, and it’s enough to make the crowd eat right out of Rob's hand. Everything he does or sings is met with deafening cheers, making it his best, warmest performance of the year by far.  

Backstage, Take That feel on top of the world. They’re headed towards their dressing rooms for a quick drink and an interview, but they’d rather walk straight into a studio and write about what’s just happened.

Howard’s mind is swimming in melodies. Mark wants to write a five-minute song about the warmth of a crowd, and Jay thinks he finally knows how to fix the lyrics Howard had trouble with. It’s the most creative they’ve been for months, and who can blame them? This handover was _the_ validation they needed. The reaction of the crowd was the galaxy itself telling Take That what they’re doing is right, and not a moment too soon. This is what they _all_ needed, not just Rob.

Meanwhile, Gary feels blissfully calm. Unlike his bandmates, his mind isn’t peppering him with lyrics or songs or backing tracks; instead, it’s honed in on a single, calming thought that’s more pleasant and more melodious than anything he’s ever heard.

_He wants to tell Rob_.

It’s a thought that Mark originally had to ignite in Gary two or three months ago, but tonight it’s clearer than ever. Something in the way Rob looked at him gave Gary hope; it gave him — certainty. He thinks he knows for certain that the Time has come. He felt it in the way Rob held him and smiled at him and took the piss when they were in their dressing rooms a lifetime ago.

Perhaps it’s just the high of the handover making him feel and see things that aren’t there, but it’s hard to tell truth from reality when you’re this in love. The only thing Gary knows for sure is that Mark was right all along; November _is_ a good month. It’s the _perfect_ month. If Gary can’t tell Rob how much he loves him _now_ , on the back of their first ever shared live event, then he never can, and never will.

Gary’s so lost in thinking about Rob that he’s hardly aware of what the other lads are saying. In a way, he suddenly resembles his lover: distracted, zoned-out, elsewhere.

‘The crowd were good, weren’t they?’ This comes from Howard, who’s loosening his black tie in the dressing room. ‘They’re never this excited about us!’

‘It _was_ special, wasn’t it?’ Jason. ‘It’s a good indication of what the reaction will be like when we reform officially, I reckon. It seems our shared audiences are finally ready for that big change.’

‘I was ready to perform _Never Forget_ the moment Rob came on, to be honest,’ Mark says. He’s smiling from ear to ear. ‘We could still go back and do it, you know. What’d you think, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary starts at the mention of his name. The world harshly comes back into focus, and he finds himself stammering that he wasn’t really paying attention.

‘I was just wondering if we could still go back and sing with Rob,’ Mark says.

‘Oh, I — I don’t know about that, mate,’ Gary says, looking distracted still. ‘Best let Rob have his own moment with _Bodies_ and the other track, I think. He was nervous enough without us askin’ him to remember the lyrics to one of our biggest hits.’

‘Maybe next time,’ Jason shrugs, who thinks the simple handover was more than enough. Then he looks at Howard, who’s taken the liberty of taking his jacket off. They won’t be back on stage again for the next hour or so, during which Muse, Leona Lewis and Mika will perform. ‘Speaking of songs, I might have come up with a way to improve the lyrics you showed me yesterday, How. Have you got a minute?’

Howard does, so he and Jay quietly retreat to one of the sofas in the dressing room to have a look at the lyrics Howard wrote. Meanwhile, Mark gives Gary one of his warm, affectionate smiles and asks him if he’s okay.  

‘I know this was a big moment for you, Gaz. For _all_ of us, but especially you.’

Gary lets out a deep, shaky sigh. He lowers his voice even though Howard and Jason already know that he fancies Rob. ‘Yeah. Yeah, it was. I felt like me heart was going to jump out of me chest when he hugged me, Mark. I didn’t even realise me body could still do that. I mean, I’m nearly _forty_! Not that me body doesn’t _work_ anymore or anything, mate,’ Gary adds as a random outburst of Too Much Information, and he colours instantly. He’s grateful Howard isn’t listening.

Mark cringes. ‘I’m . . . really happy to know that, Gaz, but you should probably tell Rob that, you know.’

‘I’m plannin’ to. Sort of.’

‘That’s what you keep saying.’

‘I am, though. You said this month, right? I’m gonna tell him this month, like I promised.’

‘Good. Maybe not bring up what you think of your body unless you’re going to make love to him, though.’

This makes Gary turn even redder. He glances at Howard and Jay to make sure they’re definitely not listening in, but thankfully they seem quite lost in a world of their own at the other side of the dressing room. Howard would probably have made a dirty joke the moment he heard anything, anyway.

‘ _Mate_. Sex was never even on me mind, it wasn’t.’

‘That’s not what it looked like when you stared at ‘im earlier . . . and when you squeezed his shoulder . . .’

‘ _Eh_. I guess you’re right about that.’ Gary shrugs, seeing Mark’s point. ‘I do like to think that me and Rob will be takin’ things slow if we do end up dating, though. I don’t wanna _go there_ immediately.’

‘But you do _want_ to? Make love to ‘im, I mean?’

‘Eventually. But not straight off. I’m a gentleman, me! And I’m not a kiss-on-the-first-date sort of guy anyway.’

‘No?’ Mark glances over his shoulder; crosses his arms. ‘You never had any fun in the nineties? I know _I’ve_ done some things I’m not very proud of . . . ’

Gary shakes his head. He glances at Howard and Jason too, but they’re busy humming melodies under their breaths. ‘Not really. I mean, I dated some guys and girls here and there but Rob was always the one for me. Whenever I did pick up some random guy I’d just feel bad about meself cos it wasn’t Rob. It’s silly, isn’t it?’

Mark thinks about all the things _he’s_ done. ‘Not really. I mean, we’ve all done silly things to make ourselves feel better about love, haven’t we?’

Gary shrugs. ‘I’m not sure _I_ ever have. That is, apart from writing love songs about Rob and turning them into number ones . . .’

It’s a subtle attempt at changing the subject that Mark seems to have fallen for. He drops the questions about Gary’s love life, which is just as well because Howard and Jason have stopped pretending to jot down lyrics to eavesdrop on their conversation.

‘Speaking of songs,’ Mark says, ‘I actually feel like heading into the studio, don’t you? I think I could probably write two more songs tonight.’

‘Oh, same here,’ Gary nods, feeling creative too. ‘We do always write our best stuff on the back of live performances, don’t we? It’s quite funny, actually . . . I wonder if Rob does that too.’

For some reason, the boys are always at the peak of their creativity on the back of a live show. They usually write a lot more when they’re on tour, and Gary wouldn’t want it any other way. After all, did they not write _I’d Wait For Life_ in the catacombs of their 2005 live shows? Were _Hold Up A Light_ and _Greatest Day_ not inspired by their experiences on tour? Did they not write the entirety of _The Circus_ around a single live concept? Tonight they’ll probably have the biggest chance of writing another number one song than they ever will.  

Meanwhile, Rob’s own surge of creativity is manifesting in a different way. A couple of minutes into his second song of the night, _You Know Me_ , he’s still going strong. It’s easily the best performance he’s done all year, and when the song finishes and he takes in the gratitude of the crowd he feels better than ever. He’s back, at last. He could get used to this again. Even the thought of going on tour again doesn’t scare him as much as it used to.

On his way back to his dressing room, Rob’s approached by yet another group of pesky journalists. Ordinarily, Rob would just ignore them or politely tell them to fuck off, but this time he decides to speak to every single one of them. Right in his element, he jokes and sings and chats on camera till his throat hurts. It’s good to be back, and the journalists that are there think it too. Tomorrow, the papers will be full of him.

Four interviews later, Rob finally returns to the Take That dressing room. Thirty minutes have passed since their handover, and he looks equally happy and flustered. In other words, he looks good — and every bit his former, cheeky self.

‘That took you long, Rob,’ says Gary, who looks very pleased to see Rob indeed. ‘You didn’t get lost, did you? This place is a bloody maze, it is.’

‘No. Just felt like doing a few press interviews, to be honest,’ says Rob. ‘I told everyone, “I did a really terrible performance of this song on a commercial talent show but tonight’s performance was fucking ace so if you could please dig into your pockets and donate accordingly.” Well, without the swearing. I didn’t say that out loud. I think.’

Feeling warm, Rob takes off his jacket and drapes it over a chair. Seeing Rob taking his clothes off makes Gary feel hot too, and he has to look away for fear of staring at him too long.

‘I haven’t felt this good about meself for ages,’ Rob says, sans jacket. ‘I feel like a brand new person. I keep thinkin’ about what it’ll be like when we get back together for real.’

‘That’s so good to hear, Rob,’ says Mark, who’s seen the transformation in Rob too. ‘I’m really proud of you, you know.’

Howard agrees. He closes the notebook he and Jason have been staring at. ‘Me too, mate. This is what we reunited for, innit? All we’ve ever wanted to do is make each other ‘appy. Your vocals on _Bodies_ earlier needed work, though, Rob,’ he jokes light-heartedly, and they all burst out laughing when Robbie gives him the middle finger.

***

The echoes of a female pop star’s performance reach the boys’ dressing room. Howard’s gobbling down a bag of pick ‘n mix. Mark’s blabbering on about how much he loves performing. In the background, the two makers of the Take That documentary don’t have to do anything: they just keep the camera rolling, filming the boys being blissfully at ease with each other.  It doesn’t even feel like fourteen years have passed since they last shared a stage. Rob decides to tell the boys as much. In the aftermath of such a beautiful moment on stage, it’s much easier to speak his mind.

‘I don’t know if I’ve said this before, but I’m really happy you asked me back, lads.’ Rob looks at Gary in particular, who starts fumbling with his hands, adorably red in the face. He waits for his own heart to slow down before he speaks again. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way, to be honest. Actually, I think I might stop bein’ Robbie Williams now, if you know what I mean! It’s much better bein’ in a band with you.’

‘Wait till you’re on tour with these three, though,’ Howard says, jabbing his thumb at the others. ‘You’ll be _begging_ to be on your own again after one night with them!’

‘Speak for yourself, How,’ Mark jokes, and for some reason it ignites a chat about each other’s respective tour habits.

They joke and laugh about how Mark always brushes his teeth before going on stage, and how Howard sometimes hides a Twix bar in his trousers, and it’s vaguely reminiscent on how carefree and youthful they used to be in the nineties. Back then, they were the boys-next-door you could take home to your mother. They were the people you could count on when you were going on the pull. They were the boys who played pranks on their stylists and joked about each other in interviews.

Take That were never a shoulder to cry on, however, and that’s perhaps been the best, biggest transformation of all. For in the three months that Rob has known the boys again, they’ve _all_ been there for him. They never ignored him or treated him badly — they’re just there for him, ready to give him the support and love he needs. It makes him happier than a bad prank ever would.

Eventually, the conversation strays back to the new Take That record. Mark tells Rob that Howard and Jay were working on a brand new song while he was up on stage, and they all ask him if he’d be up for a quick late-night writing session.

Rob says ‘I think so, yeah’, but only if Gary will be there too. This makes Mark, Howard, and Jay exchange brief, knowing glances, and Gary has to stammer something about how they could all head back to his house in Kensington after the event is over.

With that more or less settled, the rest of the charity concert continues at full speed. Take That return to the stage twice more for performances of _Shine_ and _Rule The World_. Meanwhile, Rob uses his free time to pore over the lyrics Howard and Jason wrote. He doesn’t bother watching performances by the likes of Paolo Nutini or Cheryl Cole.

By the time Rob’s asked to head back to the stage for an encore of _Hey Jude_ , he’s added a second verse and rewritten some of Howard’s lyrics. He’s very fond of it, and can’t wait to share it with everyone once the concert is over.

***

For Gary, the final moments of the charity event are a pleasant blur of music, ticker tape, kisses, and thank-yous. A representative from _Children in Need_ gives him a large flower bouquet to thank him for putting the event together backstage, and before he knows it he’s back inside a taxi cab with his bandmates. They’re on their way to Gary’s house in Kensington, and Gary doesn’t know whether to be nervous or excited because Rob’s never been there before. He’s not entirely sure if having an entire cabinet dedicated to _Star Wars_ memorabilia will make him look like a stud or a complete idiot.  

As though he can read Gary’s nervous thoughts about the attractiveness of his house, Rob decides to ask Gary about that very thing in the cab. Like Gary, who no longer wearing a tailored black suit but comfortable jeans and a hoodie that he can’t remember putting on, Robbie’s wearing a comfortable outfit too.

‘Is your house nice, Gaz?’

‘ _Er._ Depends on your taste, I guess,’ Gary shrugs as he thinks about his life-sized Stormtrooper in the backyard and his certified lightsaber replica in the living room. In his hands, he’s holding the bouquet the Children in Need representative gave him. It’s quite uncomfortable, and the bundle of flowers has left a stain of water on his right thigh that looks rather suspicious. ‘I’m not there much, though.’

‘At least it’s more sensible than the previous property you owned, Gaz,’ Jay chimes in. ‘I could never live in a place like that.’

Howard cringes. He’s covered in ticker tape, and there’s a faint smudge of lipstick on his cheek where Cheryl Cole kissed him after the encore. (He also spoke to Sir Paul McCartney, which was very nice indeed. But Cheryl Cole is a lot fitter.)

‘Tell me about it, Jay,’ Howard laughs. The cameramen from the Take That documentary aren’t there, so he can speak freely. ‘That place was takin’ the piss, wasn’t it? Like fucking Disneyland. Remember, Rob?’

Rob nods. In spite of his troubled relationship with Gary in the nineties, he stayed over at Gary’s about as often as the others did. He actually rather enjoyed the mansion, but Howard looks sceptical. ‘Didn’t you _like_ Gary’s house, How?’

‘If you like old crap from antiques shops.’ 

Gary scoffs. ‘I spent a lot of money on that old crap!’ 

‘Sure didn’t look like it,’ Howard points out. At the same time, the car stops at a red light to let a group of tourist pass. ‘The bed in the guest room would creak if I so much tried to pick me nose.’ 

‘Not to mention your garden, Gaz,’ Jason nods.  ‘Unless you’re planning to have a particularly large family there’s no use to have a garden that large. It’s like you’d bought a big property just to show off how wealthy you are.’ 

(Jason has been living in the same moderately-sized London apartment for the past couple of years.) 

‘Exactly. If you need a Segway just to get to the front door you’re havin’ a fucking laugh,’ Howard agrees. ‘Didn’t you have a butler as well?’ 

Gary blushes. ‘No . . .’ 

‘You did, though,’ says Rob.

‘Yeah, you did,’ Mark agrees. He glances at Robbie, who looks interestingly pleased that Gary’s being teased like this. ‘The house was haunted as well, did you know, Rob? As in, there were ghosts. Scary ghosts.’ 

This makes Gary laugh out loud. ‘ _Haunted_? Where on Earth did you get that idea from?’ 

‘Well, one night I went to the toilet and there was suddenly a person in really long robes stood in the middle of the corridor. There was this strange sound as well, like, I don’t know, howling. It was very scary.’ 

Robbie scoffs.

‘You never told me that, Mark,’ says Gary, who has no idea if Mark’s being serious or not.  

‘I didn’t tell you cos was scared that if I did the ghost would kill me.’ 

Howard laughs out loud. Meanwhile, the taxi driver takes a right turn into a long street lined with trees. ‘You sure it wasn’t just Gary in his pyjamas, mate? I’d be scared to death too if I saw that.’ 

(Here, Robbie goes a little pink as he accidentally imagines Gary in his pyjamas.)

‘I’m serious, Howard. It was a ghost! At least, I think it was . . . It could have been the butler too. Or my own reflection! Anyway, what I’m tryin’ to say is that your current house is much better, Gaz. It’s much more sensible. Look! We’re ‘ere now.’ 

They’ve arrived. Gary gets out of the cab first, bouquet in hand, and the rest follow. Slowly, they walk into Gary’s Kensington mansion one by one, little knowing that Rob won’t be leaving till four in the morning.  

***

Rob closes the front door behind him and takes in the décor in the hallway and the rooms beyond. He was expecting to be faced with something rather extravagant, but Gary’s Kensington house is rather homely. There’s expensive white furniture, yes, and gold records line the walls where other people would ordinarily put their precious family portraits, but other than that nothing screams millionaire popstar.

Rather, Gary’s house is pleasant and welcoming. There are music magazines on side tables. Gifts bestowed by fans take centre place on a mantelpiece. A big, furry dog runs past at the end of a corridor. In other words, this is a home that Gary created with the full purpose of _living_ there, not just showing off. It’s nothing like the ostentatious display of wealth Gary’s previous mansion once was, and it makes Rob’s mind go places where it shouldn’t be, like him staying here with all the added advantages of having Gary as his roommate.

It’s an intrusive thought Rob doesn’t want to be having, so Rob takes a brief moment to take in the gold records on the wall. He hopes it might detach himself from the man who lives here and stop him from wanting to make bigger memories here, but it doesn’t. On every single wall, there’s at least one photo of their young selves looking back at him: in black and white, on a beach, looking serious in front of a black background on the cover of _Babe._ Take That are everywhere, meaning that Rob’s already a part of this place whether he likes it or not.

Rob might be tempted to say that the walls in his own precious mansion look exactly the same, but he sold his Take That records the moment he moved to L.A. ten or fifteen years ago. He wanted nothing to do with the times he spent being in a boy band, and why would he? He was having more hits on his own than he ever did as a part of Take That. Robbie Williams was a household name with more money than sense.

But Gary? Gary must have been the complete opposite. He must have held on to his successful boy band past until he could finally replace it something new and current. In just a single glance at his wall, you can sum up the entirety of his career. There isn’t a single gold record from his solo career on the walls.

For now, the record on the walls is the only thing Rob gets to have a proper look at. After a brisk walk past Gary’s living room, the man of the house quickly leads his guests into the basement, where a small studio is. In a way, the studio is a like a miniature version of Electric Lady Studios: there’s the mixing desk; a recording booth; a carpet on the floor; myriad keyboards and notebooks; and, at last, two desk chairs and a black leather sofa that’s been covered up with a comfortable white blanket, like someone once slept there.

On the way there, Gary miraculously managed to avoid all the rooms and places where all his _Star Wars_ memorabilia is kept.

Once they enter Gary’s home studio, Gary, Mark, Howard, and Jason don’t spend much time talking things over. They sit down to write almost immediately, with Howard and Jay tinkering a set of lyrics and Gary and Mark humming brand new melodies to themselves. In less than twenty minutes, Gary has written a chorus inspired by the events of tonight, and Howard and Jason have completed a second song.

Meanwhile, Rob is finding it harder to concentrate. He _should_ feel happy, and he does, but he can’t find his focus no matter how hard he stares at his notebook. Something about the smell of the house and the black leather sofa and seeing Gary so comfortably at ease in his desk chair makes him feel weird. He ought to be putting pen to paper and write, but all he can think of is how _soft_ that white blanket on the sofa is and how badly he wishes he could envelop himself and Gary with it.

It makes Rob feel _indecent_ , like he’s broken into someone else’s home and used up all the towels and the bedsheets. Part of him feels like he has to touch every single inch of the house with thin white cotton gloves, but another part of him wants to be _bad._ Naughty. There’s an almost pure, virginal quality to all the whites in the house that makes him want to get his dirty, tattoo-stained hands on it and ruin absolutely _everything_. _Every last inch_.

He desperately tries to channel the high of the handover and the hug and the applause into words in his notebook, but the only thing he comes up with is a sweet, saccharine love song. While it’s probably the most cheerful thing he’s written all year, it’s not very good. How can he feel so happy and _horny_ and this out of depth all at the same time?

As ever, it’s Mark who notices first. He looks at Rob, who seems oddly flustered, then at Gary, whose nervous toe-tapping on the floor belies how he truly feels about Rob being here. He demonstratively yawns, closes his notebook, puts down his pen and stretches his arms and legs. Then he shoots a conscious look at an old Take That clock in the corner.

‘ _Phew_ , we’ve been writing for a long time, haven’t we? I could do with a bit of break, couldn’t you?’ Mark says. Then he looks at Gary, who doesn’t look keen on taking a break at all. ‘Actually, why don’t you show Rob round while me and the others stretch our legs, Mr. Barlow? What’d you think, lads?’

Jay catches Mark’s curt but meaningful look. Mark’s trying to get Rob and Gary alone. ‘Good idea, Mark. I wouldn’t mind getting some fresh air.’

‘Besides, you’ve never been ‘ere, have you, Rob?’ says Howard, who’s caught Mark’s intentions too. ‘Might as well have a look round if we’re gonna be here more often.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, How,’ Gary’s quick to reply. He feels red in the face, and he’s suddenly glad that they didn’t invite the lads from the Take That documentary. ‘I’m sure Rob’s got better things to do.’

‘No, I’d like to, Gaz,’ says Rob, agreeing with Jay and Howard this time. He puts away his half-empty notebook for lack of inspiration. ‘I’ve been meanin’ to ask for something to eat all evening, anyway. I’m fuckin’ starvin’. You haven’t got somethin’ in the fridge, have you?’

Gary doesn’t want to show Rob the rest of his house for fear of coming across something embarrassing, but he really can’t say no to him either. He just hopes they don’t walk into any sci-fi merch on the way to the kitchen.  

‘I think there’s still some leftover curry from last night that you could pop into the microwave if you want.’ Then Gary addresses the others so they won’t feel left out. ‘I could get you guys something as well? I know we haven’t eaten much all day. I probably should have thought of that sooner.’

‘Nah, I’m fine,’ says Howard, who doesn’t think Gary has very good culinary tastes, and he downed an entire bag of Pick ‘n Mix earlier anyway.

‘A glass of water for me, please, Gaz.’ Jason. He doesn’t really drink anything other than water and the occasional cup of tea.

‘You don’t happen to have some Coke, do you?’ Mark asks next. ‘And some cookies, maybe? I’d like a cookie. Or a biscuit. Both will do.’

‘No Coke, but I think I’ve got some Fanta lying around somewhere,’ Gary says.

‘Fanta sounds great. Thanks, Mr. Barlow. Don’t forget the cookies.’

Gary turns to Howard. ‘What about you, Dougie? I could make you some coffee.’

‘I’m fine, Gaz. Cheers, anyway.’

With that more or less sorted, Rob and Gary leave the studio together to stretch their legs and get something to eat. Gary thinks the moment is slightly reminiscent of their confusing ‘wrap incident’ last September, but he doesn’t try to think about it too much. Thankfully, they left most of the awkwardness in New York.

From Gary’s home studio, there are several ways to get to the kitchen. Gary has taken the liberty of taking a shortcut there, but every now and then Rob still stops in his tracks to check out a specific room or corner, like a child who’s seeing a classmate’s house for the very first time.

‘Is that an Ivor Novello, Gaz? Yours looks a lot better than mine.’

‘Did you choose those curtains yourself?’

‘I don’t sit in _my_ garden much, do you? I’m always scared I’m gonna get photographed. You know what I mean? I do like my garden, though. I’m thinkin’ about maybe putting something artsy there but that would involve me going into a place where they sell that sort of stuff. Garden centres, right? Maybe I should just keep the place empty.’

‘I like your paintings, Gaz. Do you paint? I paint sometimes. I’m not very good at it, though.’

The questions just keep coming. It’s like Rob has an unconscious need to memorise Gary’s house by heart in case he’s ever asked to come back again. Gary answers every single question with varying degrees of honesty, conscious that he doesn’t want to share too much for fear of blurting out that he’s in love with Rob. But then:

‘Hang on, Gaz, is that a lightsaber?’

Rob has already stalked into the living room before Gary can answer. Against one tall, white wall, there’s a glass cabinet with all of Gary’s most prized possessions — including a life-sized lightsaber from _Star Wars_.

‘Mate. You’ve got a fucking lightsaber!’ Rob exclaims, like Gary needed reminding that he had the object in his possession. ‘I didn’t know you were a geek, Gaz. _Are_ you a geek? Please tell me you are. Or maybe don’t. Things could get embarrassing.’

Rob utters the word “geek” with all the love of a fellow sci-fi _aficionado_ , and Gary relaxes. How on Earth could he have forgotten that the two of them used to spend their rehearsals talking about science-fiction together? Or that they used to play Nintendo video games all day? Of course Rob wasn’t going to make fun of him for being a fan of Star _Wars_.

Gary joins Rob at his cabinet, but he doesn’t open its doors yet. Inside it, there is about a thousand pounds’ worth of stuff. There’s the lightsaber, a couple of original _The Empire Strikes Back_ figurines; Carrie Fisher’s autograph that Gary got off a friend who knew the actress’ dog trainer; a piece of film prop that’s supposed to look like an exploded bit of Starfighter and a bunch of other things that he got off eBay when he was drunk. (There are also four Brit awards and another Ivor Novello statuette, but they’re far less important.)

‘Where did you get it?’ Robbie asks, referring to the lightsaber.

‘At a convention several years ago, one of those geeky ones. Cost me a fortune.’

‘Real?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Gary says, full of pride. ‘Came with an official certificate and everything.’

‘Wow. And I thought _my_ lightsaber was cool.’

Gary looks impressed. ‘You have one too?’

‘I do, but it’s one of those cheap replicas that come with empty batteries. I think mine’s a lot bigger, though, Gaz . . .’

Gary lets out an unflattering scoff. His next words pour out of him before he can think them through. ‘Careful, mate. Someone might think you’re flirtin’ with me with comments like that.’

Rob’s eyes meet Gary’s. They have a coquettish shine to them. ‘Maybe I am, Gaz. Maybe I am . . .’

It’s a fairly innocent comment, but it still makes Gary feel light in the head. Was he right about thinking their look on stage meant something? Is this about to be their Moment after all? Has Rob been flirting with him all this time and is he only just figuring it out?

‘Why would you ever wanna flirt with me?’

Rob shrugs, like he doesn’t think his comment could possibly have meant anything. His words, like his songs, can be a strong, thoughtful stream of consciousness that perfectly describe his feelings, but also complete nonsense. It could mean nothing and everything. With Rob, you never really know.

‘Dunno, Gaz. Maybe I just wanna get me hands on your lightsaber.’

Gary’s mind briefly short-circuits. Then his eyes flick at his precious piece of film history in his cabinet. ‘ _Oh_. I don’t know about that, Rob.’

‘Oh, come on, Gaz.’ Rob gives Gary a gentle nudge with his elbow, _which does not help at all_. (Are they flirting? Gary has no idea whether they’re flirting or not. This is all very confusing.) ‘I _promise_ I’ll be gentle. I’m a big geek too, you know. There’s a reason I believe in UFOs.’

Gary rolls his eyes. He loves Robbie Williams dearly, but if there’s one thing they’ll never agree on it’s the probability of unidentified flying objects circling Rob’s L.A. mansion.

‘UFOs aren’t _real_ , Rob. I’ve tried telling you that.’

‘And I’m tellin’ _you_ that they’re real, Gaz. They’re real! I had an encounter with a Martian once and he told me he believed in me. You know what I mean? I had an alien tellin’ me _he_ believed in me cos _I_ believed in him.’

Gary snorts.

‘I’m serious, Gaz! Then again, it did happen in 2006. It could just have been the drugs.’

‘Probably.’

‘Yeah.’

In spite of Gary’s reluctance to believe Robbie’s far-fetched stories about encounters with the third kind, something about Rob’s enthusiasm makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside. His eyes flick at his very _real_ and very expensive lightsaber again, and he mellows. Against his better judgement, he gives in and reluctantly opens his glass cabinet.

Then Gary closes it again.

And opens it once more, reluctantly.

‘ _Promise_ you’ll be careful? I paid a lot of money for this. It’s one of a kind,’ Gary adds matter-of-factly, as though that will make Rob handle the prop more careful.

‘Promise, Gaz. I promise. I don’t think I’ve broken anything since I broke me Apple laptop two weeks ago.’

Pause.

‘I mean, someone _else_ dropped it,’ Rob lies when he sees the worried look on Gary’s face. He regrets bringing it up. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it. And I had it fixed immediately. But I promise I won’t drop your lightsaber and if I do I’ll be very sorry and stuff?’

Against better judgment, Gary reaches for his _Star Wars_ prop. If he can’t trust Rob to handle a one-thousand-pound prop for a minute, then he won’t be able to trust him with anything.

Then something makes Gary stop again. His fingertips briefly rest on the shelf the prop is on.

‘You _know_ Dougie’s gonna have an innuendo field day if he finds out you’re about to touch me lightsaber, don’t you, Rob?’

‘I know,’ Rob says. He watches Gary pick up the lightsaber like he’s handling a miniature flower, and he can’t help but be reminded of how soft Gary’s hands were when he first held them, and how badly he’s wanted to hold them again since. ‘Howard keeps sayin’ I fancy you, weirdly enough.’

This is such an unexpected statement that Gary nearly drops the lightsaber. His heart starts beating like mad. What’s up with all these weird, flirtatious comments all of a sudden? What happened that they’re suddenly so weirdly capable of being honest to each other?

‘Well. _Um._ ’ Gary swallows. He thinks about how he’s going to put this. ‘ _Do_ you fancy me, Rob?’

Their fingers briefly touch when Gary hands Robbie his lightsaber, and this time they _have_ to look at each other again. Rob thinks of their rooftop chats and the locker room and how much he loved seeing Gary naked and the phone call and the handover and the hug and this moment right here, with both their hands clasped around a moment of intergalactic film history, and his mind draws a blank. It’s as though the moments he shared with Gary are all complicated numbers and he can’t add them up for the life of him.

‘I dunno, to be honest,’ Rob says when he takes the lightsaber from Gary’s hands. It’s not an outright refusal or rejection, it’s just Rob being honest. ‘Tell you what, though, I feel fuckin’ amazing with this. Look at me!’

Gary can’t help but laugh at that. Trust Rob to ruin a perfectly intimate moment by waving a three-hundred-pound lightsaber in the air!

No, this is fine, this. Rob doesn’t have to fancy him straight away, or ever really. It’s good enough that they’re able to joke and talk about liking each other at all. If anything, it’ll make Gary’s inevitable admission a lot easier, and possibly a lot less daunting.

‘It makes a noise as well, by the way, Rob,’ Gary points out, as though their previous exchange never even happened.

‘Really? How?’

‘Press that small button there.’

Rob does, and the lightsaber buzzes like it would in the movies. Rob’s so enthralled by the special effect that he spends the next two minutes fighting an invisible alien assailant, and it’s so adorable to watch that it doesn’t matter that Gary fancies Rob or that Rob doesn’t understand the meaning of his own feelings. They’re just two delighted mates bonding over _Star Wars_ , is all. Gary needs nothing more.

***

Eventually, Gary has to ask Rob to give him back his lightsaber. Once he’s put the piece of memorabilia back inside his cabinet, they spend another five minutes talking about the cabinets’ remaining contents before heading back to the kitchen.

Once there, Rob spends an age peering into the fridge while Gary puts the kettle on. He can only see vegetables that he doesn’t know the name of. ‘Where’s that curry you were talkin’ about, Gaz? There’s just fruit and vegetables here.’

‘Top shelf,’ says Gary, without looking up from the large serving tray he found on his kitchen counter. He couldn’t find any Fanta for Mark, so he’s poured him a glass of orange ice tea instead. ‘It’s in a Tupperware box. Blue.’

‘Got it. Did you make it yourself, Gaz?’

‘The curry? No, got it at me local restaurant. I don’t get take-out much, mind,’ Gary says as he carefully pours water into a glass for Jay and puts it on the serving tray. ‘Gotta take care of me health. Better not put the box in the microwave, by the way. There are some plates in the cupboard in front of you.’

‘This one here?’

‘Yeah. Did you say you wanted to drink anything, by the way, Rob?’

‘Just something non-alcoholic, please.’

Gary thinks he can hear a sense of pride in that. He doesn’t know much that about Rob’s private life, but he does know alcohol used to be a bit of a problem for him. ‘Still sober, then?’

‘Like a fucking nun, mate. It’s the only addiction I’ve managed to keep a lid on, more or less. I never even liked the taste, to be honest. Especially red wine. I feel like people drink that just so they can make themselves feel like they’re all grown-up and stuff.’

Gary chuckles. ‘You’re probably right about that.’

Rob opens the cupboard. He sees a lot of regal, expensive looking white plates, and he ends up picking one that looks a bit old and chipped. He doesn’t want to be responsible for breaking one of Gary’s expensive plates, especially now that they’re finally getting along!

Gary hardly ever microwaves anything, so his microwave is an old, unloved model that stands out from the rest of his kitchen. Rob works out where to find the right buttons quite easily and chooses to let the curry heat up for about three or four minutes.

While he waits, Rob takes the time to look round Gary’s kitchen with the same delighted curiosity as before. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen is stark and white, and there are a lot of items that Rob’s never seen before: juice blenders, diet cookbooks, avocado peelers, super food pots, and so on. Gary never really struck Rob as a health nut like Jason, but then again . . . that body . . .

‘Is your health something you need to be really aware of, Gaz? If you don’t mind me asking.’

Gary nods. He’s just finished plating his tray with chocolate cookies: four pieces in all, so none for himself. ‘I have to, really. When I went through that depression I told you about I became really fat, dangerously so. I must’ve smoked about ten spliffs a day back then. Lots of fast food too. It’s like I couldn’t stop eating.’

‘Wow. What changed? I’m not tryin’ to pry, by the way,’ Rob adds. ‘Food’s me own worst enemy too. I mean, _second_ after depression. And me anxiety. But it’s definitely in me top three of worst enemies, if you know what I mean. I very nearly woke up with me head stuck in the fridge one day. I think I’ve been goin’ to the kitchen in me sleep most nights. ’

Gary thinks about it. ‘I’m not sure _what_ changed, really. I guess at one point there just came a moment when I realised I couldn’t live like that anymore. I didn’t just leave me house cos of how depressed I was, I physically couldn’t. And you can’t really go on tour in that state, can you?  You can’t do one dance routine after another and still treat yourself to chocolate bars and crisps at the end of each show.  
  
‘I guess at the end of the day it’s all connected. Performing, your health, your mental state . . . It’s all connected. If I’m gonna spend each day tryin’ to stop meself from slipping back into me depression, _everything_ needs to change, not just the way I feel about meself. I think that’s why Mark always puts so much effort into his looks on tour. We all have our own ways to pretend like we’re all right when sometimes we’re really not.’

‘Is that something you still struggle with, then?’ Rob asks. ‘Your depression, I mean. Again, not tryin’ to pry.’

The water for the tea finishes boiling, and Gary carefully pours it into a red teacup before answering. It seems quite natural that they’re having such a personal chat after the fun they had in the living room, but it’s still a daunting question. While he can see the benefits of being truthful about how he feels, his dark days are still a difficult thing to talk about.

‘I definitely feel happy _now_ , but it’s still something I have to be aware of every day. Especially after a tour. It’s why I take on projects like tonight’s cos if I don’t have anything special to work on, me mind tends to go places it shouldn’t. And it means takin’ care of me body too.’ Gary laughs a little self-consciously when he looks at the four cookies on the serving tray. ‘I don’t just eat all this healthy stuff cos I wanna look good for our comeback tour!’

‘Yeah, I do think you look healthier than ever now,’ Rob says, with a subtle once-over at Gary’s body. Gary’s covered himself up with a comfortable black hoodie, but Rob knows what’s underneath all of that now. ‘It suits you.’

‘You say that like you’ve been checkin’ me out, Rob.’

Sometimes, but not often, Rob has a recurring dream about Gary. In the dream, they’re back in the New York locker room, where Rob looked at Gary for a little too long. They don’t ever do anything intimate in the dream, but sometimes Rob wakes up wishing they would. It’s like Gary is a single, solitary painting on a museum wall that he shouldn’t be drawn to but _is_. He can’t stop looking at it. At him. He wants to take in every single line and curve and scar like he would a brushstroke, but he doesn’t know why.

Out of all his band members, Robbie only ever dreams of Gary, not even Mark. They’re both devastatingly handsome, but Rob likes looking at Gary the most.

Rob tells Gary as much with childish honesty. ‘Can you blame me for lookin’ at you, Gaz? You’re a very handsome man, you know. I mean, not as handsome as Jay, but still. You’re up there.’

Gary laughs. Rob brings it as such a stone-cold fact that he can’t possibly be accused of flirting. It’s flattering, though. ‘Cheers, mate. Watch your curry, though. You don’t wanna let it in there for too long, it’ll get rid of all the taste . . .’

As though on cue, the microwave beeps three times to indicate that the four-minute countdown is over. The smell of curry that fills the air when Rob opens the microwave is mouth-watering, and Gary mentally needs to restrain himself from having a bite. He shouldn’t be having take-out today — he’s already eaten far too much!

Rob puts the steaming plate on the kitchen counter and takes a small, hesitant bite to test the taste. Pleased, he starts taking bigger bites until he catches Gary looking at him with an amused, jealous look on his face.

‘Any good, Rob?’

‘‘Tis delicious, Gaz,’ Rob says with his mouth full. ‘Fucking amazing.’

‘That’s great, Rob, but I’m not gonna stay here to watch you eat.’ Gary carefully picks up his tray of drinks and starts towards the half-open kitchen door. ‘Come, you can finish your meal in the studio as long as you don’t sit at me mixing desk. Last time someone did that I ended up with Howard’s hot wings all over me desk . . .’

Rob makes a movement to pick up his hot plate, but he does it in such an ungainly manner that he knocks over his fork and makes chicken curry catapult all over his shirt. The fork lands on the tiled floor with a loud _clang_ , and when Gary looks over his shoulder to watch the commotion a large brown stain has formed on Rob’s pristine white shirt. There’s curry all over the floor.

Rob’s reaction is suitably dramatic.

‘ _No—_!’ he cries, staring at his stained stomach as though he was stabbed there with a knife. ‘I borrowed this shirt off a mate today! He’s gonna fucking kill me if he finds out. And he will, cos I still haven’t got a clue how to do me own washing . . .’

Unlike Rob, Gary manages to stay calm. He loves cooking so he’s ended up with plenty of suspicious food stains over the years himself, so his first instinct is to put his serving tray back on the kitchen counter. Then, he grabs a red patterned kitchen towel from a towel rack and wets it underneath a running hot water tap. He conveniently ignores Rob’s apologies about the mess he made on the floor and focusses on Rob’s wardrobe malfunction instead. He doesn’t fancy having to stare at Rob’s dirty shirt all night, and giving him a brand new shirt isn’t really an option either.

‘Don’t worry ‘bout it, mate. Let’s take care of that shirt of yours before you decide to send me your dry cleaning bill . . .’ Gary dips the towel with the contents of a small, pink bucket he finds in one of his kitchen cupboards. It looks like a strange mix of washing powder and magic foam. ‘Do you want to try to remove the stain yourself or d’you want _me_ to do it?’

Rob shrugs. He doesn’t care either way. ‘You do it, mate. And you say that like someone _has_ sent you their dry cleaning bill.’

‘You’d be surprised. One time a guy from the record label came over and spilled fruit juice all over his three-piece suit and blamed _me_! I couldn’t believe me eyes when I found his dry cleaning bill in the letterbox the next day. I don’t think I’ve talked to him since.’ Gary casually motions his hands at Rob’s t-shirt. He tries to convince himself that what they’re about to do is perfectly innocent. ‘Stand still for me, mate?’

Rob does. He says nothing when Gary starts dabbing the stain on his t-shirt with the red patterned kitchen towel. He watches, transfixed, how Gary’s slender fingers disappear into the folds of his shirt. He tries not to think about what else those fingers and hands could do to him on a good day. This is that day.

It feels nice. It tickles. Gary’s left hand clutches the ends of Rob’s shirt as his right hand slowly conjures away the stain with his kitchen towel, and with each touch he increases the pressure. As perfectly ordinary as these touches are, Gary loves touching Rob there. He enjoys it, and Robbie does too.

Gary doesn’t want his attention to stray elsewhere, so he tries to keep their conversation going. ‘Did you say you don’t know how to do your own washing, Rob?’

‘Guess so. I’ve never even used me washing machine back in L.A. I mean, I guess if I bothered to have a look at all the buttons and all that I’d probably be able to get it work, but I just can’t be arsed.’

Rob giggles when Gary touches a particularly sensitive spot on his tummy with his wet kitchen towel, then he composes himself. His eyes are still on Gary’s hands.

‘I mean, I kinda have people for that. You know what I mean, Gaz? Until a year ago I’d never even been in a supermarket.’

‘Wow.’

‘I know. There are a lot of every-day things that took me years to catch up on, to be honest. I mean, when we were in the band the first time round there were so many things that other people did for us that it kinda became second nature that someone else would clean and wash and get the fucking mail for you. You know? I don’t think we ever had to, back then.’

‘Oh, I know. You know how the lads joked about me having a butler back in the day? It was true. It made me feel like a bloody diva. I never even did me own shopping.’

‘Jesus, same here, Gaz. For years I didn’t even know how much milk or bread costs. Or how to be a functioning human being, really. Even when I was in rehab I had one of the other patients do me washing for me cos I knew he was a neat-freak. That’s why I spent so much time indoors last year cos I genuinely didn’t know how to be a socially functioning human being.’ Gary touches another sensitive spot on his tummy, and Rob has to stifle another laugh. ‘I’m better now, though. I try to leave the house more. I even mowed me garden in L.A. the other day.’

‘Well, that’s good then, isn’t it?’ Gary says, a little distracted at what he’s seeing. ‘That’s all any of us ever wanted, you getting out there more.’

He knows their conversation is meant to be serious and oh so mundane, but Gary can’t help it. His thoughts go where they shouldn’t. For where the big brown stain was, a wet patch has now appeared, making the white t-shirt translucent. It exhibits one of Rob’s swallow tattoos in blurry, indistinct detail, and it almost makes Gary want to take Rob’s t-shirt off. He wants to wet Rob’s entire t-shirt until it sticks to Rob’s skin and every single hair and tattoo is framed in perfect wet, transparent detail. He wants to place his hands flat on Rob’s stomach and kiss his tattoos right through the cotton, but he can’t. He won’t. Not tonight.

Gary’s thoughts are almost as weirdly misplaced as the ones he had in the New York locker room, so he stops what he’s doing. He puts his red kitchen towel back on the rack and looks at Rob’s t-shirt, where only a wet patch suggests that there was ever curry. Other than that, the shirt looks brand new.

‘I have to admit, Rob, I didn’t think that would work,’ Gary says a little distractedly. ‘You’ll probably want to wash it when you get home anyway, though. Or get someone else to do it for you.’

‘Cheers, mate.’ Rob touches the place on his stomach where the stain was. He thinks he’s merely inspecting Gary’s handiwork, but it’s his fingers that betray him: without knowing it, he’s trying to replicate every single touch and brush Gary’s fingers made.

It felt nice to be touched there. It felt wonderful, in fact, but Rob’s struggling to see why. It was just a stain. Just a _touch_.

In Robbie’s mind, these brief, random interludes with Gary aren’t significant. They’re just things that happen because this is what bandmates _do_. They touch and have fun and clean each other up because they don’t want to leave a mess on the kitchen floor. Mark would have done the exact same thing for him, and Jason too.

But Mark doesn’t make Rob’s heart flutter like mad, and neither does Jay. They’re just mates. At the end of the day, Mark, Howard, and Jason are just mates, or brothers at most. They don’t fill Rob with funny feelings.

Gary Barlow is something else entirely, however, so even as the boys clean the kitchen floor together and laugh about something Gary said, the flutters keep going. They feel like butterflies, and that’s what they are. Rob can keep pretending that his feelings don’t mean anything, but that won’t stop him from having them.

***

They finish cleaning the kitchen floor. By the time they get up from their knees, Gary’s tea has gone cold, and two out of the four cookies on the serving tray have disappeared into Robbie’s mouth. The curry has gone cold again too, so the boys have to start all over again. They finally return to the studio ten minutes later — more than half an hour after they left.

The door of the studio opens, and Howard looks up from what he’s writing. He’s taken the liberty of claiming Gary’s favourite chair at his mixing desk. ‘Where the hell have _you_ been? You two was gone for nearly half an hour! Did you make a detour to the local Tesco’s or something?’

‘I know, sorry.’ Gary puts his serving tray on a small table, then hands everyone their drinks and chocolate chip cookies before Rob can gobble everything. ‘There were some issues with the curry that we had to sort out first.’

‘My fault. I made him show me the rest of the house,’ Rob says before sitting down on the sofa and shoving his third cookie of the night into his mouth. He already finished his curry on the way there. ‘So what were you guys up to while we were gone?’

‘Not much,’ says Mark. He looks quite smug that Rob and Gary were gone that long. ‘We finished that song you had a look at earlier.’

Rob remembers. ‘ _Affirmation_?’

‘We don’t know if we’re calling it that yet.’

‘You should,’ says Gary, who’s been relegated to his second-favourite desk chair. ‘It’s good.’

Howard looks unimpressed. He glances at the lyrics in front of him. ‘I dunno about that, Gaz. It’s not very catchy, is it?’

‘Neither is _Underground Machine_ , but that will still catch people’s eyes when they pick up the album in the shops in a few months’ time. It’ll make them wonder what the hell that’s all about and buy the record.’

‘No one’s ever bought an album because of the _song titles_ , Gaz,’ says Mark. There’s a pen propped behind his ear, and he’s holding an expensive white laptop in his lap. He smells vaguely of cigarettes. ‘That’s never happened.’

‘Maybe on iTunes, though.’

‘You don’t _use_ iTunes, though, Gaz, do you?’ Howard chimes in. He takes a small bite of one of the chocolate cookies Gary got for them, then puts it back on the tray, displeased. ‘You’ll still be buying physical albums long after the format has died out.’

‘Honestly, if that ever happens I’ll quit music, I will,’ Gary groans. ‘I hate the thought of having digital music only. What happened to album booklets? And the smell of second-hand record shops? Now _that’s_ music, that is. Not that digital nonsense.’

Mark shrugs. He’s never really agreed with Gary’s old-fashioned stance on music. ‘I like digital downloads. They take up a lot less space.’

‘I hear there’s a brand new online platform where you can listen to unlimited music as well,’ Howard adds, just to annoy Gaz. ‘You get everything you could ever want for the price of two albums.’

Gary hates the mere idea. ‘That just feels wrong. That’ll kill albums as a whole, that will. No one will bother to buy music anymore!’

‘Speaking of albums, though, have we thought about how we’re going to call ours yet?’ This question comes from Jason, who still plays vinyl but doesn’t really want to have a discussion about the future of the physical album format. They’ll be here all night once Gary gets going. ‘We haven’t got a title yet, I believe.’

‘ _The Flood_ ,’ Howard suggests quasi-seriously.

‘ _Five_.’ This comes from Rob, who writes down the title in his notebook.

‘Why _Five_?’ Howard asks.

‘Cos there’s five of us.’

‘That’s shit.’

‘I like it, _Five_ ,’ says Gary, but only because he likes Robbie. ‘It makes sense. Good call, Rob.’

The compliment makes Robbie beam. ‘Cheers, Gaz.’

‘No problem, mate.’

Howard can’t help but roll his eyes at this blatant show of flattery. ‘It don’t make sense at all. Not when it’s our _sixth_ album. And there’s already another boy band called Five, anyway. We don’t want to be compared to them, do we?’

‘ _The English_ , then,’ Gary suggests, to appreciative hums of his bandmates.

‘ _One_.’ This flippant suggestion comes from Robbie. He starts counting his own solo albums on his fingers before jotting down his next suggestion: ‘ _Nine._ ’

‘ _Pretty Things_.’ Jason.

Then Mark, very solemnly: ‘How about . . . _Progress._ ’

They all look at him. Rob uses the distraction to have a quick glance at Gaz, who doesn’t look back but seems rather puzzled at Mark’s suggestion. Howard and Jason are looking at Mark in more or less the same way, like _Progress_ is the worst “potential album title” of all time.

The sudden attention makes Mark stammer. He tries to explain himself. ‘You know, because we’re finally back together and it’s _progress_ , in a way. You know?’

The others aren’t impressed. Howard admits that he ‘doesn’t get it’, and while Rob takes the courtesy of writing everyone’s silly suggestions in his notebook, he still likes his own ideas the most. Jason starts going on about how ‘progress’ could be interpreted in different ways and that it might be an interesting concept to take further in terms of songwriting, but not as an album title.

Finally, Gary says he doesn’t like one-word album titles in general, and Mark has no choice but to pout and admit defeat.   

***

They continue working on what will later become _Affirmation._ They all suggest changes to the song here and there, and Gary likes Robbie’s changes the most. It becomes painfully obvious that he’s trying to flatter Rob, or flirt with him, or both: ‘I like that, Rob.’ ‘Great idea, that, Rob.’ ‘I absolutely _love_ that lyric you added there.’

Similarly, Rob’s just as bad when it comes to thinly veiled flirting. ‘You’re so talented, Gaz,’ he’ll say. ‘I love your lyrics, Gaz. They’re so honest. You know what I mean?’ They’re not even aware they’re doing it, which is perhaps what makes Mark, Howard, and Jason put up with it.

In spite of all the creativity, there must always come a moment when the boys decide to call it a day. It’s nearly twelve o’clock, and the strain of the eventful evening has become apparent on their faces. Mark looks exhausted. Jay’s constantly yawning. Even the cookies haven’t helped, for those who managed to grab any before Rob did. In other words, it’s time to go home.

Mark’s the first to bring it up. He yawns when he sees Jay yawning too. ‘It’s quite late, isn’t it? I should probably start headin’ home by now if I don’t wanna get in trouble with the missus.’

‘Same here, Mark,’ says Howard, with a brief look at his own notebook, scribbled full of ideas. ‘The song’s almost finished anyway. Might as well leave it till after the weekend.’

‘I agree, Howard,’ says Jay. He’s already in the process of getting up. ‘We can finalise the lyrics on Monday and record the song then if we want to. I don’t think we’ll be much more productive by staying here.’

But Rob and Gary aren’t tired at all, far from it. If anything, they’re feeling more pumped up and energised than ever, all thanks to a single pleasant moment in the living room.

‘Hang on, lads, I was finally getting started ‘ere!’ Rob cries as much. He hadn’t really written anything before he had his curry and cookies, but he feels like he could go on all night now. ‘I don’t wanna go home yet. Can’t we stay here and finish the song?’

Gary agrees with him. ‘Same here, Rob. It’s just an hour away from bein’ perfect, this song.’

Howard gives an indifferent shrug of his shoulders.

‘If you wanna keep on working on it, be my guest, guys, but I’m not stayin’ ‘ere.’ Howard gets rewarded with agreeing nods from Mark and Jason, who aren’t planning on staying either. It isn’t even a deliberate event to get Robbie and Gary alone — they’re genuinely exhausted. ‘Don’t get me wrong, guys, today was fun, but I can hardly feel me body anymore, I’m so tired! I could sleep for days.’

‘But it’s _your_ song, How,’ Rob points out, suddenly anxious that he and Gary will ruin everything they achieved today. ‘We can’t just continue working on it without you, can we? _Can we_? Gaz?’

Gary deliberately doesn’t answer, and Howard is already in the process of collecting the rest of his stuff anyway. He even tears two or three pages out of his notebook and hands them to Rob, who can’t believe Howard’s just going to leave them in charge of _Affirmation_ like that. _Affirmation_ is as much Howard’s baby as _Eight Letters_ is to Rob. Is Howard really going to let the two of them alone without his very own song like that?

He is.

‘Sure you can,’ Howard says. ‘And it’s not _my_ song, anyway.’

‘It kinda is, though, Howard. It’s yours. If me and Gaz are gonna finish it, shouldn’t you be here too?’

Howard’s flattered, but he doesn’t see it that way. He’s always considered himself as someone who provides the others with buds and seeds of songs, not finished products. ‘I mean it, Rob. I won’t mind if you end up changing the entire song as long as it’s still in the same key by the time I get back. I’m sure you’ll do a better job singin’ it than me, anyway!’

As convincing as this is, it still feels wrong. Rob did go over the lyrics of _Affirmation_ on his own before, but that was different. They’re talking about actually _finishing Howard’s song_ here, not just changing little bits here and there. What if he does it wrong? What if he ends up messing up Howard’s song forever? What if the lads will stop wanting to work with him?

Mark can see Rob thinking it. He tries to reassure him with different words. ‘Rob, I _think_ what Howard’s tryin’ to say is that we _trust_ you not to mess it up, you know. I’m sure you and Gary will manage to do Howard’s story justice whether he’s here or not. Maybe that’s something you need to learn too. You know, to trust us when we say we believe in you. Or did you think we wrote our previous two albums sat in the same room together?’

Rob looks up from Howard’s notes. ‘You didn’t? I thought you four wrote everything together. Don’t ruin the magic for me, lads!’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s true.’

‘I wasn’t even in the studio when the guys came up with _Wooden Boat_ ,’ says Jason. ‘I think I was having a massage somewhere.’

Howard nods. He remembers the day well. ‘And _Beautiful World_ – the song, that is – is very dear to _me_ , but Gary here wrote the chorus, not me. All I had to do is tell ‘im how I felt about something and the bastard decided to write almost three songs about it. I wasn’t even there, I’d gone off to get food. And anyway, didn’t you guys write the majority of _The Flood_ without us? It’s not the end of the world.’

Rob thinks he catches the boys’ drift. ‘So what you’re sayin’ is I can do whatever I want to this song? As in, I could add a verse of me rappin’ and it’d be all right? You wouldn’t get mad at me?’

‘This is what we’ve been sayin’, yes,’ says Mark. Then he sees Rob’s doodles of spaceships and Stormtroopers in his notebook and winks at him. ‘Maybe not write about aliens, though, mate.’

With that more or less agreed, Rob and Gary briefly leave the studio to see the others out. They all get dressed in the hallway where Gary has put up his gold records, and when the clock strikes twelve Howard and Jason leave the house together.

Mark takes a little longer to reach the front door. He squeezes his feet into his fashionable brown boots, puts on his black winter coat, wraps his neck in a big wool scarf and tiptoes to kiss Rob and Gary on the cheek. It’s such a warm goodbye that you’d think they were parting for two weeks, not two days.

Once Mark’s put his attire on, Gary escorts Mark outside while Rob stays inside to inspect the platinum records on the wall. Rob’s already too far away to overhear what Mark and Gary are saying to each other in the front garden.

‘Tonight was good, Gaz. You did a good job organisin’ that event, you know.’

Distracted, Gary doesn’t really acknowledge the compliment. He’s meant to be looking at Mark, but he can’t help but look over his shoulder and see the shape of Rob’s body in the hallway, casually standing there like he’s a part of the house.

Mark looks at Rob too. ‘He looks like he enjoyed himself today, didn’t he?’

Gary looks away from Rob and starts probing and kicking away the pebbles on the gravel path to distract himself from how he’s feeling. ‘Yeah. Yeah, he did.’

‘Not too much, I hope?’

Gary laughs. The air that it makes him breathe out appears as a puff of smoke in the air. ‘Only if you count playing with me lightsaber.’

‘ _Ah._ So he found your collection, then?’

‘Yeah.’ Gary looks over at Rob again to make sure he hasn’t moved away from the hallway. He hasn’t — the gold records on the wall are still keeping him busy. ‘You know what, he didn’t even make fun of me. Turns out Rob is a massive geek too.’

‘ _I_ could have told you that.’

‘But you didn’t.’

Mark shrugs. Cold, he pulls his scarf round his neck tighter and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. ‘There are a lot of things I could tell you about him, Mr. Barlow.’

‘Like?’

Mark breathes a deep sigh of resignation. He thinks he saw something blossoming between Robbie and Gary today that is promising, but also eerily reminiscent of the Gary Barlow who hasn’t been on a date for ten years. He doesn’t want Gary to end up doing something potentially beautiful far too soon. Tonight would not be a good night for it.

‘Just . . . take things slow,’ sounds Mark’s advice. ‘Enjoy yourselves, but take things slow, like you said you would. Rob can’t always tell when someone genuinely likes him, so he tends to — he tends to think people want _sex_ when they actually want something else.’

Mark utters the word ‘sex’ as delicately as he can, but it still catches Gary unawares. He crosses his arms, suddenly feeling cold and vulnerable.

‘Mark. Mate. I’m not plannin’ to have sex with him tonight. I told you that. We’re just going to head into the studio to _write_ , is all.’

‘Does _he_ know that?’

Gary scoffs. His eyes flick at the shape of Robbie’s body in the hallway. ‘ _Mark_. He doesn’t even think of me like that.’

Mark shakes his head. He considers telling Gary that Robbie Williams very much thinks of him like that, but he keeps it to himself. This is not his battle to fight. ‘If you say so, Mr. Barlow.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

But Mark speaks no more. All Gary’s getting from him is another kiss on the cheek, for good luck. He then shouts a warm goodbye at Rob, who waves at him from afar, and Mark disappears into the cold London night, his face hidden in the folds of his wool scarf.

Gary watches Mark walk away until he disappears behind a tall wall of trees that were left leafless and bare by the autumn winds. He knows Mark means well, and he can _sort of_ see where Mark’s coming from, but he _knows what he’s doing_. As pleasant as the butterflies and the touches are, he’s not planning to act on them till the truth is out. Unless Rob miraculously tells Gary that _he’s_ in love with _him_ , Gary’s not going to initiate anything. Not yet.

Of course, Gary can’t deny there’s some truth to what Mark said about Robbie and sex. Even when growing up, Rob was never the new romantic Gary was. Gary was gentle and demure; Rob was wild and forthright. Rob liked being touched by fans backstage; Gary liked cuddling and kissing.

Gary constantly talked himself into thinking he could absolutely have a healthy monogamous relationship with a fan, but Rob just wanted to take them all home and fuck them senseless without so much knowing their names. And he did. Rob took groupies up to his hotel room until Gary was convinced Robbie could never like him like that.

He wasn’t one-night-stand material, Gary wasn’t. Hell, Gary wasn’t even anything back then. Gary was just the guy Rob hated, and over time Gary learnt how to deal with that. Gary was never going to be the person to break Rob’s consecutive streak of groupies. But now? Now, anything’s possible. Rob could desire a serious relationship like Gary does. Rob could be a softie and a romantic like him, proving that Mark’s wrong about him.

Perhaps Robbie’s able to tell the difference between love and sex after all.   

***

Mark has long disappeared into the evening, so Gary quickly goes back inside and closes the door behind him. In the hallway, Rob asks him what he and Mark were talking about, and Gary stammers something about how they were still discussing album titles. Rob can tell when Gary’s lying by now, but he doesn’t bring it up. He’s just glad that they’re together.

Gary’s hand briefly touches the small of Rob’s back when he leads him back inside, and off they go, into the strange, wonderful unknown. They enter the studio together, but they’ll leave it separately, and at different hours. In the morning, the songs they wrote won’t even mean anything.

***

Before there was _Progress_ , there was happy chaos in New York. The boys all contributed their own songs and ideas, but it was hard to make sense of it. Everything was good, but nothing clicked. It was a tough album to write, and it still is, sometimes. There are days when the lyrics flow out of the boys’ pens before they can put ink on paper, but there are also days when the going is tough. Creatively, this has been their biggest challenge yet. In comparison, _Beautiful World_ was a breeze. Even working on songs back in the nineties was easier.

Then October came. Gary found it in his heart to open himself up to Rob again, and things changed. As Robbie and Gary slowly rediscovered themselves in the middle of the cacophony of a New York studio, the songs became better. Their lyrics improved. What initially started out as a loose collection of vague ideas fast became a cohesive set of songs about the band’s own struggles and the world that created them.

The songs they wrote weren’t particularly _boybandish_ , but then again — when was Take That ever a stereotypical boy band? They’ve always done their own thing. They’ve always looked up when others were looking down. They could have released an up-tempo number for their comeback single, but they wrote _Patience_ instead. They could have taken it easy on tour to complement middle age, but they never did, and never will.   

So if the boys are going to waste their time trying to write another album filled with _I love yous_ and hypocritical claims about the sparkling beauty of life, they might as well call it a day. For the nineties weren’t beautiful. It wasn’t easy. Most of it was shit if you forget about the groupies and the drugs and the sex. It was all very odd and hard indeed, and album six should reflect that even if it means not sounding like a boy band anymore.

_Affirmation_ is yet another example of an atypical boy band song. Already past twelve o’clock, Rob and Gary are still hard at work at it, determined to finish the track and give Howard something to record when they go back into the studio after the weekend. Only one set of lyrics stop the song from being absolutely perfect, and Robbie and Gary are determined to write it tonight.

Rather than sitting in separate chairs, the boys are sat on the black leather sofa together. Their legs touch. The outside world is cold, but the studio is warm. The air is filled with the scent of Yorkshire Tea and chocolate chip cookies.

Every now and then Gary will touch Rob’s thighs with his fingertips, and Rob doesn’t mind. Occasionally, Rob touches Gary there too. It helps them to write. The lyrics are better that way. Robbie still can’t see the importance of the touches.

They don’t just talk about music. They talk about food and London and friends and life as they write, and it’s the most comfortable they’ve ever been. Rob doesn’t even notice that Gary is touching his thigh anymore, and Gary no longer minds that Rob keeps asking him for one chocolate cookie after another. All they feel is warmth.

Eventually, the boys exhaust themselves of every-day things to talk about, so the conversation strays back to the song they’re working on. They’ve just spent the past ten minutes staring at a single lyric that sticks out like a sore thumb, and the longer they look at it the worse it becomes.

Rob turns over Howard’s notes in the hopes that he’ll be able to spot what’s wrong with the song. He doesn’t. Even switching the lyrics around doesn’t help.

‘I can’t figure out what to do with this, can you, Gaz? It feels like it’s one of those songs you just _know_ is one line away from being a number one hit. Or a moderate hit, anyway. A fan favourite. Anyway. You know what I mean.’

‘Yeah. It’s tricky, this one. I don’t wanna get rid of it, but I don’t think it really fits on the album yet either.’ Then Gary looks at the old Take That clock on the wall. It’s half past twelve. ‘Christ, we’ve been at it for half an hour as well. We’ll be here till six in the morning at this point.’

‘I don’t really mind bein’ here all night as long as we finish the song, Gaz,’ Robbie says in earnest. ‘It’s gonna drive me fucking mad otherwise. Besides, if I go to me hotel now I’m just gonna hoard me minibar and get really fat and stuff.’

‘Starin’ at the lyrics all night won’t help either, though.’

Rob shrugs. ‘We could take a quick break if you want.’

‘Are you kidding? I feel like we’ve been takin’ breaks all night, you’ve eaten so many cookies!’ Gary says, waving a hand at the half-empty serving tray on the side-table next to the sofa. Rob must have eaten about nine cookies since he got here.

‘They _are_ very good, though, Gaz,’ Rob says. He takes the last remaining chocolate cookie from the serving tray and offers it to Gary, who gives the cookie a look of distrust. ‘Have you actually tasted one yourself? You should taste one.’

‘No, thanks, Rob.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Suit yourself, I guess.’ Robbie pops the chocolate cookie into his mouth and makes the sort of face one makes when tasting something particularly pleasant. Then he puts away Howard’s notes and sits more comfortably, as if he’s trying to tempt Gary into a taking short break after all. ‘Let’s just sit here and do nothin’ for five minutes, Gaz. Just five minutes. Do you watch reality shows? We could talk about reality shows. You know, _Real Housewives of New Jersey_ , that sort of thing.’

Gary scoffs. He’d rather finish those lyrics within the next half an hour, but he also knows Rob is right. No-one ever wrote something good on the back of a three-hour non-stop writing session.

‘Fine, a _short_ break, then. But no more cookies for you, Rob. Those things are bad for you!’

‘They _were_ in your kitchen, Gaz. Meaning _you_ bought them.’

Gary rolls his eyes. ‘Whatever, mate. And I don’t watch reality shows, by the way.’

‘Never?’

‘Not really, no. Sorry, Rob.’

‘What about paranormal documentaries on Discography Channel?’

‘I don’t watch those either.’

‘Live sports on certain commercial television channels?’

Gary laughs. ‘Occasionally. But not as much as I used to.’

‘Right. Okay. Is there anything else we can talk about that isn’t television?’

( _Loads!_ Gary thinks.)

‘I like talking about music,’ Gary shrugs.

‘Other people’s music or our own?’

‘Both.’

‘Would talking about our own music mean we’re no longer takin’ a long and deserved break from music-making?’

Gary laughs again. Having Robbie Williams in the same room does that to you. ‘I reckon as long as we don’t actually write or record anything it would probably still count as a break, yeah.’

‘We could talk about the album then,’ Rob suggests. ‘In an informal ‘teachers complainin’ about work at a staff party’ sort of way, that is, Gaz. You know what I mean? Except we wouldn’t be complainin’. I _think_. Maybe _I’d_ complain a _little_ bit.’

Gary likes the sound of just talking. ‘So I’m not allowed to write anything down if I’m suddenly struck by the best lyrics me mind’s ever come up with?’

‘No.’

‘All right.’

‘Can I start by askin’ a question?’

‘Sure.’

‘How do you think the album process is going so far?’

Robbie asks it so seriously that Gary’s convinced he’s been sitting on that question for hours rather than having just come up with it on the spot. Gary answers with suitable earnest.

‘It’s going a lot better than I thought it would. Don’t get me wrong, Rob — I never once questioned the quality of our work, but I did wonder if we’d get along, the five of us. Especially with everything _we_ have been through. I’ve absolutely loved it, though, I really have. It’s been such a revelation, this album process. I can’t wait to see what the documentary is gonna be like.’

Rob nods to show he agrees. He’s loved working on this album too. The awkwardness he felt in September has completely faded, and he can’t even remember the promo tour he did on his own. All he remembers is the writing sessions with the boys, and being with Gary. His trips to Sydney and Berlin fade in comparison to what Gary has made him feel.

Still: Rob’s a sucker for improvement.

‘Is there anything you think I should still work on, though, Gaz?’ he asks Gary in earnest, like a veritable student asking a professor for feedback. ‘I mean, in terms of me lyrics or the way I am in the studio or — you know. I just wanna know if I’m doin’ a good job! I don’t want you tellin’ journalists you thought I was shit in three years’ time.’

Gary makes a face as though he’s never really thought about it. He always knew Robbie was going to have a different writing style coming into the band, but if anything it’s helped Take That improve their own way of writing.

‘Dunno, Rob. I think you’re doin’ a pretty good job so far for someone who’s used to bein’ on his own.’

This won’t do. Rob touches Gary’s arm; urges him to tell him _something_. ‘Oh, come on, Gaz. There’s gotta be _something_.’

Frankly, Gary struggles to recall something he doesn’t like about Rob, but maybe that’s just because Rob’s _so close_ _and_ _so alone with him_.

In the end, Gary settles for something that he doesn’t even find particularly annoying about Rob. ‘I guess you could stop usin’ caps lock in your emails to everyone. It makes your lyrics very hard to read cos I keep imaginin’ you shoutin’ them at me.’

This is a fair comment, but Rob doesn’t really see the problem. ‘I’m not “shouting” at you, necessarily, it just makes things easier to read cos I’m a bit dyslexic and letters confuse me. And I suppose I’m just scared that you guys won’t read me emails otherwise.’

‘I do. I’ve read all of them. Even the ones you sent me at two in the morning.’ Gary says this with a sigh of exasperation; he’s often been woken up by the sound of his phone pinging in the middle of the night.

‘Is _that_ something you think I still need to work on, then?’

‘Not really. I like your emails.’

Rob seems desperate for feedback still. ‘What about me songs, though? Do you like them? Do you think they’re good? Are there any songs that I did that you secretly hate?’

‘I’m not even going to answer that question, mate’

‘ _Please,_ Gaz. I won’t mind if you do. That is, I don’t _think_ I will. I might get a little sad if it turns out you dislike something I spent three years on.’

Gary laughs. It’s so _Rob_ to have a conflict of confidence at one in the morning. ‘I don’t know why you want me to convince you that you’re a crap member of the band so badly, Rob!’

‘What if me songs are crap, though? What if they’re absolutely shit?’

‘They’re not, Rob. Trust me.’ Gary touches Rob’s thigh again, and this time it’s not merely his fingers that are doing it. He gives Rob an encouraging squeeze and keeps his hand there, too tired to be fully aware of doing it. ‘I’m tellin’ you, mate, you’re doing a great job so far. I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you. Even Jay thinks you’re doing brilliantly, and he always finds negative things in everything.’

‘The song about aliens that I did the other day wasn’t very good, though.’

Gary cringes. ‘No. No, it wasn’t. Best keep that for your next solo record, I think.’

‘What _do_ you think of the songs we’ve done so far, though, Gaz? I haven’t heard you talk about it much.’

‘D’you mean all of them or just the ones _you_ did?’

‘All of them.’

Gary thinks about it. He likes _The Flood_ because it was the first song they ever did together. He likes _Wait_ also. And _SOS_ , of course. He absolutely loves that one. It’s like someone sprinkled their music with a smattering of Muse and turned up the volume.

But out of all of them, Gary probably likes _Pretty Things_ the most. It’s sexy, in a way; suggestive, for a Take That song. (And Rob sounds great on it. He always does.)

‘Dunno, really. I like _all_ of our songs so far, but it’s _Pretty Things_ I keep going back to, personally,’ Gary tells Rob. ‘I’d be really surprised if we ended up not puttin’ it on the final record.’

Rob nods. He likes _Pretty Things_ too. (But mostly because he thinks Gary sounds great on.) ‘Which one do you like least? Apart from the one about aliens.’

Gary groans. He hates picking least favourite songs. ‘Don’t make me choose, Rob. I like all of them!’

‘ _Please_ , Gaz.’ Gary’s hand is still half on Rob’s thigh, and Rob gives it a squeeze back; encourages him to talk; to be truthful. ‘I won’t mind if you pick one of mine. I trust your judgment.’

This disguised compliment helps. They’ve written plenty of songs, but there are only about seven or eight that they actually ended up recording. The rest exists only as short sound bites and Word files on Mark’s laptop.

If he had to choose, the song they did last week is probably Gary’s least favourite so far. ‘I guess — _Don’t Say Goodbye_ is a song I – I don’t know. I _like_ it, but it sticks out like a sore thumb, that one does. I actually feel guilty just sayin’ that!’

‘You don’t think _Don’t Say Goodbye_ should make the album? Cos I think it should. It’s nice.’

Gary makes an uncertain face. ‘I’m not sayin’ it _shouldn’t_ , I just think we’re gonna have to think really hard about where to put it is all. Not just with this song, though – it’s gonna be extremely difficult in general, puttin’ this tracklist together. So far it’s not really your typical boy band record, so anything that sounds even _remotely_ like our old stuff is going to have a really hard time fitting in.’

Rob nods. ‘Yeah, I agree. It’s _good_ , though. The album sounding a little different, I mean. It’s not really a Take That album, but it hasn’t got _me_ written all over it either, if you know what I mean.’ Then Rob changes the subject so quickly that Gary can hardly keep up. ‘So what has been your favourite moment of the past three months so far, then?’

Another question. It’s like Gary’s being interviewed. Usually, Gary would have hated it, but things aren’t so bad when Robbie Williams is looking at him like he wants to know everything there is to know about him.

‘Do you always ask this many questions at one in the morning, Rob?’

‘Probably. Maybe. I’m usually alone at one in the morning.’

This comment sounds so suggestive to Gary’s ears that he’s convinced Rob’s trying to flirt. Maybe it’s just because of all the tea and the cookies and the touching, but Gary’s voice suddenly to take on a hint of coquettishness too; a slight taste of flirting that he can’t wait for Rob to pick up on.

‘I _really_ doubt that, mate.’ Gary takes it further. Now _he’s_ the one to ask the questions, as innocently as he possibly can: ‘I mean, come on, Rob — _surely_ someone’s been with you lately? I mean, a girlfriend or . . .’

Rob lets out a hearty laugh. ‘I wish, mate! I hate to disappoint, Gaz, but I’ve been very lonely lately. I don’t think I’ve been with someone since I got out of rehab, actually, which is sayin’ much cos I used to be with someone all the time.’

‘So you’re . . . single?’

‘Very much.’

Gary knew this already, but it’s incredibly nice to hear Rob say it out loud. ‘That’s great, that. I mean, it is for — for whoever wants to — you know. The fans. The fans must be very happy about that.’

‘Are _you_ single, Gaz?’

‘Oh yeah.’ Gary gives his answer way too keenly, so he tries to cover it up by talking more nonsense than is strictly necessary. By the time he’s done, he’s almost descended into a full-on ramble, like he’s momentarily turned into Mark Owen. ‘I mean, I **—** I don’t get up to much these days, to be honest. Relationships wise, not – you know. Doesn’t mean I can’t still write loads of songs about love, but — but, yeah. I’m usually _asleep_ at one in the morning, I am.’

‘I know, Gaz, I’ve noticed!’

Gary turns scarlet when he realises what Rob’s talking about. He’s talking about their phone call a couple of weeks ago, the one Gary fell asleep in.   

‘Don’t you start, Rob! I was very tired that day, I’ve told you that!’

‘But you fell asleep in the middle of me monologue, Gaz! I’d been goin’ on for two minutes before I realised you weren’t even listenin’ to me. What if it was important?’

Gary gives an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. ‘It can’t’ve been _that_ important if I fell asleep in the middle of it, Rob. Can you even remember what you were talkin’ about yourself?’

That is a fair point. Robbie’s tired mind tries to recall the exact words he told Gary when he was in Berlin. They mentioned nervousness and anxiety, and how much he likes Gary now that he knows what kind of issues they share. They were words of gratitude and warmth, but also uncertainty: _I just wish me body would catch on with me, cos I still get this weird feelin’ inside me stomach every time you look at me and it does me fucking head in, Gaz. You know what I mean? It’s like me body still gets nervous when we’re in the same room together._

To this day, Rob still doesn’t know what any of that actually means. He still gets childishly nervous whenever Gary looks at him, and he doesn’t know why. He desperately wishes he did, because being nervous means that something obviously must be wrong with him. Being nervous means that a part of him is still stuck in the body of a nineteen-year-old. It must mean that he still hasn’t moved on from the shit they put each other through.

But what’s strangest of all is that Rob actually _likes_ it when Gary makes him feel nervous. He enjoys the feelings Gary gives him. He gets off from it. He wants to feel it over and over and over again until the pieces of the puzzle slot into place and he can pinpoint exactly which part of Gary makes him so desperately scared.

‘What I told you over the phone – the bit you _fell asleep in, Gaz_. . .’ Rob gives Gary an uncertain smile. He doesn’t know how to say this out loud. ‘I was just sayin’ to you how glad I am that we’re finally mates again, and how comfortable I feel bein’ with you. You know what I mean? I’ve absolutely loved this, Gaz. I’ve loved this. You guys have made me feel more grounded and creative than I have in years.

‘But what I still don’t understand is why I get so fucking nervous around you. Anxious. _Scared_. And I don’t just mean _now_ , I mean all the time. Every _day_ , Gaz. And it does me fucking head in. You know what I mean? I still get fucking nervous when I’m with you.’

Rob pauses to catch his breath. It sounds like he’s reaching for something in the dark, and Gary urges him to finally find it. He urges him on with a squeeze of his hand and a smile. He wants to hear this. _Needs_ to.

_Please_ see _it, Rob. You’re_ so _close now. Please understand._

‘The thing is, though, Gaz, I don’t even know _why_ I feel that way about you. I really don’t. It’s like I’m nineteen again and I’m scared of you lookin’ at me from across the stage and tellin’ me I’m shit, except I’m not scared or sixteen. I don’t _have_ to be scared, cos I know that you genuinely want me to be ‘ere. You all do. So why do I feel so fucking weird, Gaz? Why does me body keep actin’ all strange whenever with you? I mean, me heart’s hammerin’ just tellin’ you this!’

It’s the exact sentence Gary needed to hear. _He makes Rob’s heart beat faster. He makes Rob feel_ strange _._

It’s like Gary’s entire world has changed in the course of their conversation. His heart is beating fast. He forgets Howard’s lyrics book. The studio looks brighter. He no longer feels like he’s indoors — he feels like he’s outside, floating. _Flying_. A million possibilities have suddenly become a warped reality now that he’s heard Rob say these words out loud.

_I still get fucking nervous when I’m with you._

_I don’t understand why me body’s doin’ this to me._

_Me heart’s hammerin’ just tellin’ you this._

That just proves it, that. Rob being nervous around his bandmates could mean anything, or fuck all, but Gary’s already jumped to the one and only conclusion. This must mean something. As in, it must mean Rob has feelings for him too. It _must_ do. There isn’t another logical reason why another Take Thatter would make you nervous. None at all.

Sure, Mark makes Gary’s heart flutter sometimes, and Jay can be really handsome on a good day, but what _Rob’s_ just described? There’s only one word for that. Just the one.

It’s hard to stay calm. Gary knows he has to be subtle about this, but he doesn’t _want_ to be. He wants to share his secret like he promised himself he would. He wants to tell Robbie that he knows what he’s talking about and that he feels it too.

But he can’t. He can’t say the words out loud, not now.

No — Gary needs to be careful, he does. He has to think his next words through so he can always take them back if he has to. He needs to treat this as a joke or a prank, so he reminds himself of what Mark told him an hour ago, about Robbie and sex and taking things slow. He repeats it over and over again in his head. He’s not about to tell Rob he fancies him. It’s not the right time.

He tries to be casual. He searches for a confidence in his voice that he never thought he’d need. _Play it off as a joke_ , he tells himself. _Pretend not to be serious._

‘What if — what if the reason you always get so nervous ‘round me is cos Howard’s right about you, Rob?’

Rob doesn’t get it. He needs to hear more. ‘Right about what, Gaz?’

Gary doesn’t want to say the words out loud. It’d be too much like admitting he’s in love with Rob. ‘You know. The jokes Howard keeps making.’

Rob frowns. ‘ _What_ jokes, Gaz? You mean the joke he made about groupies earlier?’

Gary can’t remember that one. ‘ _Um._ No.’ He still tries to talk his way round it. He does not want to mention the words ‘you’, ‘fancy’, and ‘me’ in one and the same sentence. ‘I meant the other jokes. About . . . relationships . . . stuff.’

The vagueness of the explanation isn’t helping, but Rob seems to think he knows that Gary’s hinting at. He remembers. For some reason, Howard jokes about him fancying Gary _all the time._ Howard seems to get a kick out of it, but Rob can’t really see what’s so funny about it, even if Rob _has_ been looking at Gaz.

‘You mean Howard jokin’ that I love you in a gay way?’

Gary gives a small nod of his head. His heart is beating so fast that it feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest. He hopes Rob can’t hear his heartbeat when he makes his next remark.

‘What if — what if the reason Howard told you that is cos it’s true?’

Silence. ‘Seriously, Gaz? You think I get nervous around you cos I _fancy_ you?’

The words come out mockingly, like Gary’s just told him a really bad joke. It’s a ridiculous idea. Preposterous. _Sure_ , Gary’s —kind of— handsome when he’s got no shirt on, but he still has that unattainable good-guy aura about him that rubs Rob up the wrong way. They’d never work out, and Howard probably knows that too. He jokes about bloody everything, Howard does, and him suggesting that _Robbie likes Gary_ is probably the worst, most offensive joke he’s ever made.

Except — Gary isn’t kidding. Rob catches the hurt, terrified look on Gary’s face, and his stomach turns into something else when the penny drops. He feels both dread and a twisted sense of hope build up in his chest.

_Gary’s dead serious about this._

‘ _Wait_.’ Rob desperately searches Gary’s face for a sign that Gary’s just taking the piss and that this is all a big cock-up to make him laugh, but he sees no such signs at all. There’s no mischief in Gary’s eyes, just fear. ‘You’re actually _serious_ about this, mate? You’re not just winding me up?’

It’s not too late to take it all back. Gary can still pretend he’s just having a laugh. He could still brush it all off and finish the song they were working on.

But he won’t. He _can’t_. He hasn’t come this far just to pretend that he doesn’t actually love Robbie Williams desperately, so Gary ignores Mark’s advice entirely and decides to change everything.

‘Maybe the reason you’re always so nervous around me is cos you _do_ fancy me, Rob. Have you ever thought about that?’

The remark makes Rob’s heart skip a beat. He feels faint. He can sort of see the logic in what Gary’s saying, but he still doesn’t want to believe. It’s like he’s finally managed to add up all the numbers that he’s been struggling with his entire life, but can’t remember how he got there. It’s all there in front of him, but the solution escapes him.

‘But, Gaz, you say that like I wanna — like I wanna kiss and cuddle you and everythin’,’ Denial, still. Half of Rob’s world is still in black in white, and it’s going to take a revelation to turn it into technicolour. ‘I mean, we’re bandmates, Gaz. We can’t. It’s _wrong_ , Gaz! It’s wrong . . .’

It’s still not too late to take it all back. Just pretend it was a joke. A prank. _Just kidding, Rob. Christ, you should have seen the look on your face just now! Did you actually think I was being serious?_

But Gary _is_ serious. He’s still going to run with this. He’s going to tell Rob, now. Never mind waiting till the end of the month and keeping in his feelings; he’s doing to do it now because Rob’s _so_ close to getting it.

‘That’s the thing, though, Rob,’ Gary says. His heart is beating inside his throat. His hands are clammy and hot. He feels light in the head, but he’s not going to turn back now. He has to get these words out before he regrets never having said them. ‘Being in Take That never stopped me from wanting _you_.’

Bingo. The comment automatically makes Rob look at Gary’s lips. They’re moist and pink, and painfully inviting. He suddenly finds himself wondering whether he should kiss them.

_Should_ he? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t dare think about it. But one thing he does know: Gary actually _wants_ him. Needs him.

It’s ridiculously flattering. After all these years, Rob’s still got it. People still _want_ him, and it fast becomes the single overriding thought Rob’s mind is still capable of producing. _People still want him. They still want to have sex with him_. He doesn’t consider the dangers or the risks or the consequences of Gary Barlow liking him; all he can see in front of him right now is sex and desire — not a bandmate. Gary just becomes a person he can play with.

Rob stops thinking as he looks down at Gary’s mouth again. He suddenly wants it. _Craves_ it. So what if it ruins everything they’ve ever worked for? It’s just sex, nothing more.

This won’t mean anything.

‘C’mere, Gaz.’

Something pulls Robbie towards his bandmate like they’re tied to an invisible thread, and before Rob can stop himself and run away from the studio, Gary’s filled the gap for him. Their mouths touch in a sweet, chaste kiss. It’s short, but it’s enough to make Gary’s head spin.

When Gary opens his eyes again, Rob’s closer than he’s ever been. Every single tattoo suddenly starts to make sense. There’s a tiny piece of orange confetti still stuck in Rob’s gelled-up hair, and the smell of his cologne is dizzying. Every single line on his young, weathered face tells a different story.

But what probably strikes Gary most of all is how _grounded_ Rob looks. The look in his green eyes isn’t one of shock or regret — it’s one of realisation. _So that’s what this is_ , you can almost see him thinking. _So that’s what the feelings were for_.

And the best thing about it is that Rob doesn’t mind one bit.

‘That was nice, Gaz,’ Rob says as much. He’s grinning. It’s the biggest, toothiest smile Gary has seen on him for years, but there’s something darker in his eyes too: there’s that _look_ that he used to give fit girls on the front row. It’s the look that he gave girls before he took them to his room.

Rob liked their kiss a lot more than he should have done.

Gary’s a little more lost for words. He can’t believe this is finally happening. He knows that it _is_ because he can still feel Rob’s lips on him and he can see how Rob is looking back at him, but another part of him is terrified that he’s dreaming.

In a minute, Gary might wake up and find himself on his sofa, alone. He might find himself a lifetime away from ever telling Robbie he loves him, and he doesn’t want that to ever happen. He doesn’t want to dream. He wants to kiss Rob over and over again until they wake up in the morning sun and do it all over again.

Gary doesn’t have to say anything. He tilts his head, and his eyes flutter closed the second Robbie meets his mouth again.

It’s even better than the first time. Gary’s heart races like mad. He feels himself warm up inside when Rob cups his face and touches him there like they’ve been lovers for years. It’s only one in a million potential first kisses that Gary dreamt up and wrote songs about, but it’s the most perfect, precious first kiss he’s ever had.

It’s also the most disastrous.

The second kiss lasts a lot longer, and they have to break apart to catch their breaths. When Gary meets Rob’s eye, he sees the same need that he saw when they looked at each other in the locker room. It’s the same look he used to sport when he was sizing up all the girls in a hotel bar. Rob suddenly _wants_ him, sexually, and it’s utterly terrifying because Gary never thought they’d ever even get this far.

When Gary imagined their first kiss he pictured a moment very similar to the one he’s in today, with instruments and sheets of music all around them — but he never imagined it to be the staging for their first time too. He imagined their first time to be romantic. He imagined it to take place in a bedroom filled with candles, a thousand kisses after the first.

At the end of the day, he’s just a sucker for romance, Gary is. He loves to cuddle and kiss, but he was never going to go any further than cuddling and kissing on a night like this because he’s not that type of guy. He just isn’t. Gary might have been touching Rob’s thighs, but he doesn’t have sex on first dates. Ever.

But Rob does, and always has, and Gary is no exception. He wants this. For all the wrong reasons. He kisses Gary on his neck, and he continues kissing Gary there until his mate is pudding in his arms and he can get away with sliding his hands underneath Gary’s hoodie. They search the pale, cold skin there until Gary’s too dazed to think.

Within seconds, Gary’s changed his mind about one-night stands.

Rob doesn’t think about the repercussions either. He doesn’t think about how he’ll feel about Gary in the morning. He doesn’t even stop to consider how he feels about him _now._ All Robbie really cares about is Gary’s curt, nervous nod when he asks for his permission to touch him and their first kiss suddenly turns into their first ever time together:

‘You want this, Gaz?’

‘Y-yeah. Yes. Please.’

They don’t think it through. They both want it, but that doesn’t make it right. They should have waited. They don’t. They take it too far too quickly for completely different reasons.

On one end of the scale, Gary allows his skin to be searched because he absolutely loves the man who’s doing it. He permits Rob to kiss his neck because he’s fantasised about it for years. He lets Rob palm his crotch because he can’t wait to find out what Rob’s like in the morning.

But on the other end of the scale, there’s sex. There’s physical intimacy without having the burdens of love. Simply, Rob’s doing all of these things because he loves fucking. This is a one-night stand, nothing more. They’re doing this because they want each other intimately, but not romantically. Love has nothing to do with it.

Rob’s wrong, though. It _is_ love. It’s adoration. It’s ten years of pining for the wrong guy. It’s utter _need_. It’s also sex, yes, but it’s so much more than that; it’s the shaking hands Rob feels on the small of his back. It’s Gary’s needy, throaty moans when he feels Rob roll on top of him. It’s the seconds it takes Gary to wrap his legs and arms round the shape of Rob’s body: a single, significant moment in time that means absolutely _e—verything_ to him but nothing to Rob. Nothing at all.

Talking makes it too real, so they don’t talk. They just kiss and touch.

Rob’s hard, desperate body on top of him makes it hard to move, so Gary lets Rob do whatever he wants to him — kiss his neck, his ear; bite the skin around his exposed collarbone. He’d do anything for Rob.

The position they’re in makes it hard to get undressed, but they somehow manage it anyway. Rob’s dirty white shirt goes. Then his trousers. Gary helps him unzip it with shaking hands before breaking up their kisses for a few seconds to take off his own hoodie. He does it clumsily. His arms get stuck inside the material, and Rob has to help him pull it off of him. It leaves Gary’s short hair in a perfect state of messiness that makes Rob want to pull his hair as they have sex.

They kiss again, but this time they’re half-naked. Gary desperately jerks up the top half of his body as their lips touch, wanting Rob closer; nearer.

Rob responds by pushing Gary down again. By now, two pillows have toppled onto the floor. The white wool blanket half-covers Robbie’s feet. Someone’s dimmed the light, and the rest of the studio no longer exists. They simply imagine they’re back inside the locker room, where they first saw each other naked. It’s where they first wanted each other.

Their hands search every single naked inch. Gary still can’t believe they’re actually doing it. That _he’s_ doing it. He’s waited ten years just to be able to look Rob in the eye again, and now he’s _here_ , feeling every inch of Rob’s naked, hairy torso in his dimmed home studio. It should feel wrong, and it _is_ , but Gary’s too far gone to know. All he knows is misplaced _joy._

Gary tenses when he hears Rob’s voice in his ear. It’s like he’d forgotten how Rob sounded till now. ‘I wanna fuck, Gaz. D’you wanna fuck? Let’s fuck.’

Rob’s mouth on Gary’s ear renders Gary so speechless that his reply is adorably sheepish. He feels like a puddle of goo when he feels Rob peck his earlobe, and he’s suddenly glad he decided not to take Mark’s advice. Mark’s right about a lot of things, but not him and Rob. This is the best thing that’s ever fucking happened to him.

‘O-okay,’ Gary stammers. He can barely remember how to talk. He forfeits his own ‘no sex on the first date’ rule. ‘Yeah. Let’s — let’s do that, Rob.’

Rob doesn’t know what to say either, so they stop talking altogether. By the time Gary’s trousers join the haphazard pile of clothes on the floor, Rob’s already filled the gap again. Their kisses are messier this time. Their hands become lazy as their crotches join together for the very first time.   

As the pressure starts to build, they forget to caress each other with their fingers. They forget to whisper half-arsed sweet-nothings into each other’s ears. They hardly look at each other. Over the next two minutes or a century, the only thing Robbie and Gary are capable of doing is rubbing and grinding and moving their hips until even their boxers make them feel too covered-up.

Rob never even gets to see that Gary’s wearing _Star Wars_ boxers.

They get rid of the last items of clothing. Ordinarily, Gary would have hated doing it, but he’s proud of his own body now. He _loves_ it. He wants to show it off for all to see, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been working out just for this one moment. He’s worked himself to the bone just to see the look in Rob’s eyes when he stops to take in the sight.

Gary Barlow’s stunning in the dimmed lights of the studio. There’s hair in all the right places. His stomach is almost flat. Faint promises of muscles twist and curve down the shape of Gary’s arms, making Rob wonder why he always hides his body in big black hoodies. He doesn’t _have_ to; Gary’s perfect like this. His skin is pale, but his chest is flushed red.

Rob wants to kiss every single inch of Gary’s chest and make that pale, white skin redder and hotter than it’s ever been, but most of all he wants Gary’s cock: hard, big and glistening — and completely _his_ for one night.

_Gary’s his._

Rob knows how wrong it is, but he doesn’t care anymore. The sight of Gary Barlow all naked and pretty and sweaty on that black leather sofa has made him forget every single lesson he’s ever learned about love, so he doesn’t think twice when he starts wanking off his bandmate. He doesn’t consider how fucked up it is. He just does it.

Gary’s sensitive. He’s hard. It’s like he’s been waiting for Rob’s touch all his life. He has. Before Rob knows it, Gary’s groaning and writhing against his touch. Just a flick of Rob’s thumb makes him moan and jerk up his body.

The pristine white blanket slides further down the back of the sofa and almost lands on the floor, but Gary doesn’t bother pulling it back up. He keeps jerking up his hips, and Rob keeps pushing him down again.

The sight of the aroused, agonised look on Gary’s face turns Rob on. He slows down his touch when Gary begs him for more, deliberately so. He’s not getting off this easily.

‘I didn’t think you’d be into this sort of thing, Gaz.’

Gary just whimpers.

The naked flesh that was previously white and pale is now bright red, and it’s a side of Gary Robbie never thought he’d ever get to witness. Gary always struck Rob as uptight, boring, and borderline prudish, but the last few weeks have changed his mind. A prude doesn’t jerk up his hips like that. A boring man doesn’t beg like that. They don’t bite their own lips until it draws blood.

This guy’s the biggest songwriter in the country, and look at him _now_. Hear him _moan_.

Gary wants more, still. He wants to be kissed again, but Rob refuses to give it to him. He forces him to beg for it. He wants Gary to beg for his mouth and his lips and his tongue till Rob can push him down again and mould his body like clay. He wants Gary to be at his every whim; to be _his_ , for all the wrong reasons.

Rob doesn’t force Gary to beg for long. He kisses Gary’s lips and touches his cock at the same time.

By now, Gary has been rendered a useless puddle of goo in Rob’s arms. Hot and shaking, the only thing he can do wrap his arms round Rob’s back as they touch and kiss. He can’t do anything else. He’d love to, but his hands are useless. His legs shake, pathetically, against the curve of Rob’s body. His mouth can only utter moans and expletives as he’s touched right where he needs it. He can’t do anything as Rob’s cock rubs up against his thigh. Gary’s just another thing Robbie Williams has put his stamp on.

After a couple of minutes of complete bliss, Rob stops kissing Gary so he can speak. The words feel like little bursts of air on Gary’s skin — another thing that’s overwhelmingly real and tantalizing. Gary still can’t believe this is actually happening. But it is. It is:

‘I haven’t got any condoms on me, Gaz. Do you?’

Gary feels a pang in his chest. He hasn’t bought condoms for years, and the thought fills him with dread. He doesn’t want Rob to stop what he’s doing with his hands, so he uses his useless arms to pull Rob closer. He urges him to stay.

‘No, but – but this is good too.’ Gary hardly manages to say it out loud. He jerks up his hips again to urge Rob to continue touching him. ‘T-this is good too. N-next time, okay?’

‘Next time, okay,’ Rob echoes, without considering the meaning of the words.

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’ If he could, Rob would cross his fingers behind his back.

They stop talking. Rob joins Gary’s mouth for yet another wet, messy kiss, and they let their bodies do the rest of the talking. They don’t use their fingers. They don’t penetrate each other. All they do is rub and grind and slow down and speed up again when Gary begs Rob to. Their cocks touch, but it’s all they’ll ever do. Feeling the friction of hot skin against skin is more than enough.

Within minutes, Rob can feel Gary’s fingernails dig half-moons into his skin. His arms and legs are shaking. His mouth is only capable of uttering expletives and moans. Gary’s clearly very close indeed, and a young, sadistic part of Rob doesn’t want to give it to him. He wants to _tease_ Gaz; to make him pay for all the songs and lead vocals he never gave him in the nineties.

But shagging Gary Barlow was never an option in the nineties, and Rob no longer feels any anger towards him anyway, so his next touches are almost soft. They’re gentle. They’re warm.

Rob isn’t rough or harsh when he picks up the pace. He doesn’t bite Gary’s ear so that it may bleed; he does it because he wants Gary to come. Rob wants to ride out this journey together.

The soft touches work. Rob’s fingers graze the tip of Gary’s cock, and it’s enough to make Gary come. He’s so loud and surprisingly explicit that it turns Rob on.

Within seconds, Rob comes too and releases himself all over Gary’s torso. It’s dirty and messy, but Gary doesn’t mind. It’s nice. He again convinces himself he wanted their first time to be exactly like this before Rob collapses next to him and utters a spent, final groan into his ear.

‘Fuckin’ hell, Gaz.’

Gary lets out a relieved, smug sort of laugh before pulling Robbie closer and shyly kissing all the places he didn’t get the chance to. It’s like Gary’s trying to catch up on all the days he didn’t spend kissing this man.

‘I’m _really_ happy we did that, Rob,’ Gary tells Rob in between kisses. He’s so glad that they’ve finally made love that he doesn’t care that he’s sticky and wet. He doesn’t even care that he’s naked in his own studio and that they didn’t have any condoms. All he can think of is how happy and thrilled and excited he is. (He just had sex with Robbie Williams! Robbie Williams!) ‘I absolutely loved it.’

Rob’s voice sounds more tired and subdued, but Gary’s too happy to catch it. He’s too ecstatic to consider that Rob has done this more often, and very recently. ‘Me too, Gaz. Me too.’

At the end of the day, Rob’s simply more used to having one-night stands than Gary is. He _did_ enjoy tonight, yes, and he’s happy that Gary turned out to be such a good shag underneath that soft, uptight interior, but it _was_ just sex. This is what people who find each other sexually attractive _do_ , and Rob’s too pleasantly tingly to consider that tonight could have been anything else. If they hadn’t seen each other naked in the locker room, this probably wouldn’t even have happened. It was just a weird, fucked-up anomaly that Robbie doesn’t regret yet.

The regrets _will_ come, but not right now. Right now, Rob’s perfectly happy to be here with one of his mates, so he lets Gary kiss his cheeks and his neck and his forehead until Rob’s thoughts catch up with him and he remembers with a pang what they originally came here for.

_The album._

Robbie makes Gary groan when he suddenly sits up and leaves Gary’s body cold. His eyes flick at the crumpled lyrics sheet on the floor. The ink looks smudged, and he feels guiltier than he did whilst having sex with Gary. Howard’s song had completely slipped his mind.

‘I guess we . . . won’t be working on that song after all, will we, Gaz?’ Rob shoots a worried look at Gary, who looks every bit the perfect image of ‘just had sex’, messy hair and all. ‘I don’t think this is what Howard had in mind when we told ‘im we’d, you know, finish tonight . . .’

‘Jesus, Rob.’ Gary chuckles. Of course Rob is going to worry about their song _now._ ‘We just had sex and you’re going to worry about _Affirmation_?’

‘I do tend to record me songs naked, Gaz.’

‘Seriously?’

‘No. I mean, _sometimes_.’ Rob shrugs. ‘Anyway, I don’t wanna get into an argument with Howard cos we didn’t finish that lyric we were talkin’ about, Gaz!’

Rob’s worries are endearing, but Gary doesn’t see the problem. Especially not _after they’d just had sex._

‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Rob. The song will still be there in the morning, you know! Best not tell Howard what we did tonight, though. He’ll have a fucking field day if he finds out . . .’

Then Gary’s earlier confidence leaves him. He covers himself up with a pillow that he found on the floor and looks down for a moment, thinking hard about what he wants to say next. It’s been a while since he’s had a night like this, and he doesn’t really know what to do or say other than maybe having a geeky celebratory dance around his desk chair. Eventually, he says the only thing he knows is true.

‘ _Anyway_ , I was actually wondering if . . . you’d stay here with me, Rob?’ Gary’s fingers touch the back of Rob’s hand, and it feels oddly intimate after what they’ve just been through. ‘I don’t really fancy you goin’ back home in the middle of the night and I — well, we could always continue writin’ in the morning if the song means so much to you. If you want, that is. You don’t _have_ to stay.’

Rob doesn’t usually stick around after a one-night stand, but he does fancy finishing the song in the morning. ‘Might as well, yeah.’

This time, Gary doesn’t bother hiding the glee in his voice. ‘So you’ll stay? You won’t go home?’

‘As long as you don’t take up all the space on the sofa, yes, Gaz. I don’t wanna wake up lyin’ on the floor tomorrow.’

They talk no more. Rob picks up the white wool blanket from the floor and drapes it over their naked bodies before they embrace like lovers would.

The morning will bring a brand new challenge for one of them and a terrifying, dawning realisation for the other, but it doesn’t matter now. They can’t possibly know how different they are in their loving. They can’t possibly know what will happen.

Gary kisses Rob one last time, and he dozes off into the best and worst sleep he’s ever had.

  
THE MORNING AFTER – NOVEMBER 2009 – LONDON

In a modest London apartment, Jason opens his curtains to empty floodlit streets. A cup of mineral water in his right hand and a vegan sandwich in the other, he watches the world pass him by till the sky turns into a grey, ruined gold.

At the other side of the city, Howard’s still fast asleep. He tosses and turns in his occupied king-sized bed whilst a branch whips against his bedroom window.

A storm is coming. By the time Jason’s tea has gone cold in his hand, the wind has shaken the final autumn leaves off its trees. The final yellow strokes in the sky disappear behind a thick curtain of clouds.

Eventually, Howard wakes. He’s stark naked when he leaves his bed, but not as naked as Gary feels when the light touches his face. Outside, the birds have started singing a sad rendition of their morning song. The sun struggles to cast its shadows on the city streets.

A white blanket covers Gary’s naked body, and for a terrifying second Gary struggles to remember who and where he is. He feels disoriented when he recognises his studio and sees trampled lyrics sheets all over the floor. He’s alone. His body feels sore, and when he pulls down the blanket to find himself without his black _Star Wars_ boxers, he’s met with a dozen bruises. He can’t remember where he got them.

Then Gary puts a finger to his dry, cracked lips, and he remembers. The memories from the previous night come flooding back to him one by one: the taste of Rob’s tongue; the touch of his hands; Rob’s cock against his own. They’re all absolutely wonderful images in his mind’s eye, and Gary feels butterflies all over. A happy hot flush rises from his head to his toes. A smile appears on his face.

Suddenly, the lyrics sheets on the floor don’t bother him that much. He doesn’t mind being naked and alone at all. If it means that he and Robbie Williams had sex, then he’ll happily wake up in his basement for the rest of his life.

He feels proud of what he did. Selfishly smug at the pleasure he gave Rob, Gary gives his own cock a quick, lazy stroke before finding his boxers on the floor and putting them back on. He doesn’t bother looking for the rest of his clothes. When he sees Robbie again later, he wants to remind him of the body he fucked.

Gary naively assumes that Rob must still be around here somewhere, so he leaves his basement studio with a spring in his step. The smile doesn’t leave his face as he sprints up the stairs.

His heart starts hammering in his throat at the thought of seeing Rob again. He must be in his living room, working on _Affirmation_ or a brand new love song they haven’t talked about. Or in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. They could eat cereal and sandwiches in their boxers before making love again on the kitchen table.

There’s a _lot_ they could do now, like going on dates. Touching on stage. Smiling at each other in a studio in L.A. Making love all morning. Jotting down lyrics about love in-between chaste kisses on lips.

But most of all, Gary looks forward to _holding_ Rob again. He wants to tiptoe into the kitchen and hug Rob from behind; surprise his lover with his touch. He wants to take in the smell of Rob’s shampoo until it rubs off on him. He wants to do the single most ordinary things with Rob and call them adventures. He wants to go shopping. Tell jokes. Talk about music. Cuddle, a lot.

Gary wants the quiet sex in the back of a recording studio and the dizzying echoes of Rob’s moans in his ear. He wants it all today and tomorrow. He wants to take things slow and never slow down at all. He wants Rob to be his boyfriend and his lover and his best friend. He wants it all and then some.

Strangely, the kitchen turns out to be empty. The leftovers from last night’s recording session are still on the kitchen counter, but there’s no lover in sight. The notion that Rob may have left his house in the middle of the night is not one Gary’s mind is capable of considering.

‘Rob?’ The name sounds like honey on Gary’s tongue, and he utters it again, smiling. ‘I know you’re in ‘ere somewhere, mate.’

The smile doesn’t leave Gary’s face as he keeps looking. Rob’s not in the living room. Nor in the shower. He’s not in the garden either, but why would he be? The weather is cold, and any moment now a thunderstorm will rock the houses of Kensington and beyond. The only warmth is here, inside, in the early-morning aftermath of a first time together.

Gary’s cheerful still. His heart flutters as he convinces himself that Rob’s somewhere in his apartment, waiting. He just cannot imagine that Robbie just left him like that.

He takes his sprightly step upstairs. ‘Rob?’ No response. He doesn’t find Rob in his bedroom, naked. The flutter of excitement turns into worry that Gary tries putting into context.

Perhaps Rob left his apartment early that morning. Rob must have had a different appointment that he forgot about. Or a performance. Or another writing session.

Gary will just have to be patient. He’ll see Rob again for their next writing session with Take That on Monday, and it’ll be wonderful. There will be no awkwardness, just two men flirting with each other because they know what they saw. They know what they _did._  

Then again — Rob did promise he’d stick around. He promised Gary that they’d finish their song this morning, perhaps even record it. He’d _stay_.

So why hasn’t he? Last night was fun. A _lot_ of fun. They finally made love and grew closer together than Gary ever thought they would, and at the end of it all they held each other so tight that Gary thought his heart would burst. Is that not worth sticking around for?

Gary tells himself Rob’s absence means nothing. He likes having Rob’s smell still on him, so he doesn’t shower and just grabs a random pair of jeans and a black hoodie from his closet and puts them on. He doesn’t comb his hair.

There’s nothing left for him upstairs, so Gary goes back to the living room. With each step he takes, his mind comes up with a different thing he wants to tell Rob the next time they meet, in SARM Studios on Monday:

‘Friday night was fun.’

‘I’d like to see you more often, Rob.’

Or, if he’s in a particularly naughty mood:

‘I wanna feel you inside of me next time.’

Every option makes him feel joyously giddy. He just can’t _wait_ to see Rob again and see the look on everyone’s faces when they hug and kiss in the middle of the recording studio. They won’t tell the others what they did, of course, but they probably won’t even have to: the look Gary’s red face will say more than enough. He and Rob had sex, and it was wonderful. He even looks forward to hearing Howard’s dirty jokes about it.

At last, Gary reaches his living room. Half-expecting Rob to have mailed him a love song or three, Rob takes a seat in his living room, flips open his laptop and logs in. With his free hand, he turns on his phone while his laptop loads.

A couple of seconds later, Gary’s smartphone _dings_. There are a lot of texts that he missed or didn’t reply to last night, but none of them are from Rob. That’s fine. He’s probably just busy, is all. He _is_ still a solo artist, after all. He probably had a gig he didn’t tell Gary about. Rob’s forgetful like that. He’ll probably phone Gary up later to talk about the love they made.

Gary puts away his phone. It _dings_ again a second later, but it’s just a text from Mark. He’s so focussed on his laptop that he doesn’t bother reading what it’s about. He should.

His inbox is next. Gary quickly logs into his private e-mail account, and his heart gives a warm, pleasant flutter when he sees Rob’s name on top of the list. He sent him an e-mail at 7:05, about two hours ago. It doesn’t have a subject line.

He clicks open the e-mail. This laptop isn’t as quick as the one he uses to write his music, so it takes a couple of seconds for the message to flicker alive. In those few seconds, Gary’s heart starts hammering against his throat. He can’t wait to find out what Rob wrote about their night together. Will it be suggestive? Or thoughtful? Or horny? Gary hopes it’s the latter. Or all of them.

They’re none of those things:

 

_From: Robert Williams_

_To: Gary Barlow_

_Sent: Today, 07:05_

__Subject: N/A  
  
  
GAZ,

_BEFORE I GET STARTED I’D JUST LIKE TO SAY THAT I LOVED TONIGHT … LOVED IT … EVERY MAN OR WOMAN WOULD BE BLESSED TO HAVE YOU AS THEIR LOVER ..._

_BUT WE’RE NOT LOVERS … IN FACT I THINK WHAT WE DID WAS WRONG … VERY WRONG … AND I WAS UP ALL NIGHT THINKING ABOUT IT AND I WISH I COULD MAKE THIS LESS HARD ON YOU I REALLY DO … BUT I CAN’T BE IN A BAND WITH SOMEONE I’VE BEEN WITH IN THAT WAY … SEXUALLY OR ROMANTICALLY … BELIEVE ME I’VE TRIED …_

_SO THIS IS ME LEAVING THE BAND IN THE BAND AGAIN … I GUESS IT WAS ALWAYS GOING TO HAPPEN AT ONE POINT BECAUSE I WENT INTO THIS THING FEELING FUCKING SCARED … ANXIOUS … ALONE … SO PERHAPS IT’S FOR THE BEST THAT I GO SOLO AGAIN … YOU GUYS PROBABLY DON’T NEED ME ANYWAY …_

_DON’T TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY … YOU CAN STILL USE THE SONGS WE WROTE … RE-RECORD THEM … THROW THEM OUT … KEEP THE ROYALTIES TO YOURSELF … BUT PLEASE DON’T THINK OF ME AS YOUR BANDMATE ANYMORE … OR A MATE … OR WHATEVER YOU THINK I AM …_

_I’M JUST SOMETHING YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE_

_AND BELIEVE ME GAZ I DON’T WANT TO LET YOU GUYS DOWN … I’VE FINALLY FOUND A PLACE FOR ALL OF YOU … HOWARD,, JAY … AND MARK ALWAYS HAD A SPECIAL PLACE IN MY HEART ANYWAY … AND YOU GAZ … YOU’VE BEEN THE BIGGEST SURPRISE OF MY YEAR … I DIDN’T THINK YOU HAD IT IN YOU TO BE SO HONEST AND KIND … YOU’RE A BEAUTIFUL MAN INSIDE AND OUT …_

_BUT I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN STILL BE WITH YOU NOW THAT YOU’VE SEEN THAT SIDE OF ME … EVEN IF I DO THINK I WROTE MY BEST EVER MATERIAL WITH YOU …_

_I’VE ALREADY TOLD THE OTHERS THAT I’M LEAVING THE BAND … TEXTED THEM,, NOT READ THEIR REPLIES THOUGH … I’M SCARED OF FINDING OUT HOW THEY FEEL …_

_BUT DON’T WORRY … I’M NOT GOING TO TELL THEM WHAT WE DID … YOUR SECRET’S SAFE WITH ME AS LONG AS YOU KEEP MINE._

This is where the e-mail ends. In an instant, the world changes. The joy that Gary felt upon waking up turns into something that feels like heartache. His temple aches. His body trembles as he reads the e-mail over and over again, but nothing about it changes. There is no hidden message stuck between the lines, just a godawful truth that Gary never wants to read again.

Robbie Williams has left Take That again, and this time Gary’s the only one to blame.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the shortest one (a deliberate choice), but it's also the one that needs the most editing, so it should take me about two weeks to put online. Thanks for waiting!


	3. Fragile

A YEAR AGO – NOVEMBER 2008 – LONDON

_From: Gary Barlow_

_To: Robert Williams_

_Sent: 1 November 2008, 21:31_

Subject: Hello Rob  
  
  
Dear Robbie,

_I know we haven’t seen each other for a while, but I’d really like to get back in touch with you._  
There’s a football match next Saturday that I’ve got tickets for. Manchester United vs Arsenal.  
Mind joining me? I’d love to see you again.

_Love,_

_Gary_  
  
  
\------------------------------------  
From: Robert Williams

_To: Gary Barlow_

_Sent: 3 November 2008, 05:41_

Subject: Hello Rob  
  
  
GARY,

_I APPRECIATE THE OFFER … EVEN THOUGH I’M MORE OF A PORT VALE FAN … BUT I HAVE TO ADMIT THAT WHEN I GOT YOUR MESSAGE I FELT A LOT OF ANGER … CONFUSION …_

_YOU WEREN’T A CONSCIOUS THOUGHT ON MY MIND UNTIL TWO DAYS AGO BUT NOW I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT WHAT WE PUT EACH OTHER THROUGH … ALL THE THINGS WE SAID ABOUT EACH OTHER IN THE 90S … IT’S SOMETHING THAT I DON’T WANT TO BE REMINDED OF EVER AGAIN …_

_NOT THAT I HAVEN’T BEEN THINKING ABOUT TAKE THAT LATELY … I HAVE … I THINK WHAT YOU GUYS ARE DOING IS FUCKING AMAZING … I LOVE THE NEW SINGLE … SOMEONE SHOWED ME THE VIDEO THE OTHER DAY AND ASKED ME WHAT I THOUGHT OF IT … I TOLD THEM I HATED IT BUT I WAS LYING … I WISH I’D WRITTEN IT …_

_MEETING UP WITH YOU AGAIN IS NOT SOMETHING I’VE EVER CONSIDERED OR DESIRED THOUGH … ESPECIALLY NOT WITH THE STATE MY MIND IS IN …_

_I DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO SAY …_

_RW_  
  
  
\------------------------------------  
From: Gary Barlow

_To: Robert Williams_

_Sent: 3 November 2008, 07:45_

Subject: Hello Rob  
  
  
Rob,

_I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about. I can’t remember ever sending you that e-mail about meeting up again. It’s not something I want either. Please pretend I never sent it._

_Regards,_

_Gary Barlow_  
  
  
\------------------------------------  
From: Gary Barlow

_To: Mark Owen_

_Sent: 3 November 2008, 9:01_

Subject: What the hell  
  
  
Mark,

_Give me my phone back._

_Gaz_  
  
  
\------------------------------------  
From: Mark Owen

_To: Gary Barlow_

_Sent: 3 November 2008, 10:41_

Subject: What the hell  
  
  
Mr. Barlow,

_It’s not my fault you keep leaving your stuff all over my place.  
I even came across one of your old notebooks on my sofa the other day. Remind me to give it back to you later._

_Mark x_  
  
  
\------------------------------------  
From: Gary Barlow

_To: Mark Owen_

_Sent: 3 November 2008, 10:47_

Subject: What the hell  
  
  
Mark,

_That’s great, mate, but you can’t just send Robbie Williams a bloody e-mail on my behalf!!_

_Gary_  
  
  
\------------------------------------  
From: Mark Owen

_To: Gary Barlow_

_Sent: 3 November 2008, 11:11_

Subject: What the hell  
  
  
Mr. Barlow,

_Have you ever considered that I’m just trying to help?  
Cos you **have** been talking about Rob a lot lately you know. It’s very distracting and Howard and Jason both agree with me._

_Mark x_

_PS. I only say this cos I love you xx_

_PPS. Not in the way you love Rob but you know what I mean xx_

 

_\------------------------------------  
_ _From: Gary Barlow_

_To: Mark Owen_

_Sent: 3 November 2008, 12:45_

Subject: What the hell  
  
  
Mark,

_???_

_When have I ever talked about him?? I don’t talk about Robbie Williams, ever? The only reason we ever talk about him is cos YOU and Howard constantly have to bring him up during our writing sessions. “What would Rob think of this?” “What do you think Rob’s up to now?”_

_I don’t give a bloody shit. Just cos YOU’RE still in touch with him doesn’t mean I have to know what Robbie Williams is doing every day. And I don’t fucking love him you dope. He’s not even my type._

_Gary_  
  
  
\------------------------------------  
From: Mark Owen

_To: Gary Barlow_

_Sent: 3 November 2008, 14:59_

Subject: What the hell  
  
  
Mr. Barlow,

_I’m sure you have completely normal reasons for googling “Robbie Williams shirtless” on your phone.  
I can send you a screenshot if it helps?_

_Mark x_

_I don’t know how to take screenshots but I’ve shown Howard and Jason your internet history and they both think it’s weird too._  
  
  
\------------------------------------  
From: Gary Barlow

_To: Robert Williams_

_Sent: 5 November 2009, 22:39_

Subject: Football match?  
  
  
Rob,

_Please ignore that last e-mail. I was having a bad day and I immediately regretted getting in touch with you. You sure you don’t want to go to a football match with me? Man United vs Arsenal, like I said. London Emirates Stadium. I’ll arrange everything. I promise I won’t be a dick to you this time._

_Love,_

_Gary_  
  
  
\------------------------------------  
From: Robert Williams

_To: Gary Barlow_

_Sent: 8 November 2008, 01:02_

Subject: Football match?  
  
  
GARY,

_I KNOW THIS IS GOING TO MAKE ME SOUND LIKE A BASKET CASE BUT ’VE SPOKEN TO MY THERAPIST ABOUT THIS … AND WHILST I DON’T AGREE WITH HER THAT SEEING YOU WOULD HELP ME WITH MY ISSUES … MY LACK OF CREATIVITY,, MY ANGER … I DO THINK SHE’S RIGHT ABOUT ONE THING … ABOUT GETTING OUT THERE AGAIN … SHOWING THE WORLD I’M STILL ALIVE …_

_I’VE NOT LEFT MY HOUSE FOR SEVERAL MONTHS SO GOING TO A FOOTBALL MATCH WOULD REQUIRE A LOT OF ENERGY … ENERGY THAT I MIGHT NOT HAVE … BUT I’LL PROBABLY BE SO SHIT SCARED OF BEING AROUND YOU THAT ALL THE OTHER STUFF WILL FADE IN COMPARISON …_

_SO IF SEEING YOU WILL HELP ME GET IN TOUCH WITH THE REAL WORLD AGAIN … E-MAIL ME THE DETAILS AND I’LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO …_

_JUST DON’T EXPECT ME TO ENJOY BEING WITH YOU … I MIGHT DO … BUT I’LL MOSTLY BE SCARED …_

 

BACK TO THE PRESENT DAY: THE MONDAY AFTER – NOVEMBER 2009 – LONDON

Last Friday night is easily the best night of Gary’s life. Then comes the storm.

Gary feels sadness at first, then anger. After all those years of hurting and being hurt; of finding Rob in the eye of a miracle and making amends, Robbie does it again.

For the second time in their professional careers, Robbie’s turned into a man who doesn’t give a shit about anyone. He doesn’t care about how other people feel; he’s just a cold, selfish popstar, like he always has been. 

It’s frustrating. It hurts. On Friday night Rob and Gary finally kissed and made love, and the morning after Robbie’s first reaction was to give it all up. In doing so he not only gave up on Gary and what could have been, but the band too. Mark. Howard. Jason. He’s betrayed them all.

It’s like they’re back to being teenagers. At the beginning of November, Take That had the foundations of their best ever album all built up and ready to go, but now the only thing that’s left is a broken heart and a record they can’t finish.

The wonderfully anthemic _The Flood_ has turned into a downpour. The verses of _Pretty Things_ will probably need to be re-recorded by Mark. _Affirmation_ remains unfinished on the floor. Everything will be unusable unless Robbie changes his mind and comes back, which he won’t. Gary knows that already.

The anger doesn’t stay for long. Whenever the anger fades, Gary feels denial instead.

On the first morning after, Gary ends up reading Rob’s e-mail over and over again until the morning turns into afternoon and his eyes strain from the effort. He tries prying apart each and every word to find a hidden meaning that isn’t there, but he finds none. The e-mail makes less sense than before, and the more he reads it, the worse it becomes. The message stays the same. Robbie’s gone.

As time goes by, the hurt becomes unbearable. Everywhere Gary looks, there’s a reminder of Rob in his house: there’s the lyrics on the floor, the dirty blanket on the sofa in his studio, the empty serving tray that’s covered in cookie crumbles. Rob’s everywhere.

In the afternoon, Gary returns to his laptop again, hoping against all hopes that Rob has changed his mind and fallen in love with him.  

He hasn’t. Five hours and as many anxious texts from Gary later, Rob still hasn’t said another word. It’s as though he’s disappeared from the face of the planet itself, all because he and Gary had sex. Because they _kissed_. It’s the single worst humiliation Gary has ever had to face, and he feels shame all over. He feels dirty and betrayed — even more so than then when he through his depression five years ago. This is the fear and the shame from his solo years, multiplied.

Time passes by in the blur, and on Sunday panic takes over.

On Saturday, Gary could still pretend that Rob’s e-mail had been no more than a bad joke or a prank, but on Sunday his feelings are no longer a laughing matter. They _ache._ They make Gary want to leave the band too and drag his nails across his skin till they draw blood. He wants to find Rob and ask _—_ no, _beg_ him to say.  

Gary responds to his anxiety the only way he can. He stays at home, heartbroken and cold, and on Sunday he ends up sending Rob one text after another, each more desperate than the last:

_— Where r u ?_

_— Pls text me back mate._

_— I need to talk to u._

_— I thought u loved last night ? Pls reply._

No response. Gary relegates himself to phoning Rob up in his living room, still dressed in his dirty hoodie and jeans from the previous night. Every five minutes, Gary dials Rob’s number. It goes to voicemail each time.

Hearing Rob’s voicemail makes it hurt even more. How can Rob just ignore him like that? Did their kisses really mean so little? Is this what Robbie Williams does whenever he finds out someone likes him? Is this what more than ten years of conflict and heartache has come down to _—_ an e-mail and a million unanswered questions?

The answer is yes: it was always going to come down to this. Mark told Gary as much on Friday: _Enjoy yourselves, but take things slow, like you said you would. Rob can’t always tell when someone genuinely likes him, so he tends to tends to think people want sex when they actually want something else._

Gary should have listened. He didn’t.

***

Eventually, Gary gives up. He has to. Exhausted and broken, he crawls into bed at eight in the evening, heartbroken and afraid. He dreams of Rob’s lips and his touch and his hugs and Rob’s hard, big cock in his mouth, but none of it feels good.

In the dreams, Robbie is rough. Having sex with him hurts. He puts his hands where Gary doesn’t want them and taunts him with nasty words he doesn’t understand. It’s a version of Robbie Gary doesn’t know and never wants to meet.

On Monday morning, Gary wakes up on a tear-stained pillow. His body no longer aches from the strain of the love he made, but his heart does. His head feels heavy as he struggles to sit up in bed. For a desperate moment he prays that his heartache was all just a bad dream, but then reality hits him again when he sees his phone on his bedside table.

The heartache was all very, very real indeed, and Gary can’t even remember it happening. The past two days passed him by in a single, heartbroken second, and he hardly knows what day it is when he manages to get out of bed to grab his phone. He’s still wearing his hoodie and jeans. He smells of sweat.

He checks his phone with shaking fingers. There are no texts from Rob — just twelve desperate messages from his bandmates and Jonathan Wild, their manager. There’s also a short text from one of the makers of the Take That documentary.

Gary reads the text with tears pricking the back of his eyes, but they hardly mean anything. They’re all just _air_ , for the only person Gary wants to hear from is Rob. No-one else. The last thing he wants is meeting up at SARM Studios in the evening (Jonathan) or doing an interview about Robbie’s departure (the guys from the documentary). He’d rather watch the world to turn to dust.

Desperate, Gary texts Rob again, something about needing to see him again. It takes him a quarter of an hour to type, and his heart nearly drops into his stomach when his phone suddenly _dings_ less than a minute later.

The rushed reply that Robbie sent him is so cold and distant that Gary has to read it over and over again.

_— GAZ … PLEASE STOP TEXTING ME,, PHONING … I’VE MADE MY DECISION ABOUT LEAVING THE BAND …_

And then a minute later, even worse:

_— YOU WEREN’T EVEN THAT GOOD ANYWAY GAZ … BETTER STICK TO WRITING ABOUT LOVE,, NOT MAKING IT … SORRY MATE …_

The latter is what makes Gary break. A big, uncontrollable sob rocks his weak, tired body, and before he knows it he starts crying on his unmade bed. He can’t stop. He cries a million tears until he has no more left to give and his body feels exhausted and worn in the aftermath.

He can’t deny it any longer. It’s over now. There’s no more Gary and Robbie, no more album; just a single song that Gary doesn’t know how to finish.   
  
  
TUESDAY – LATE NOVEMBER 2009 – LONDON

London, Notting Hill. It’s ten in the morning, but the grey, heavy clouds that have gathered make the sky look like midnight. It’s raining, hard. The trees have finally shed their final, persistent autumn leaves. Deep puddles cover the city streets. Umbrellas offer no comfort, and even the three-minute walk from Mark’s car to SARM Studios in is enough to drench him completely.

For a moment, Mark completely regrets coming here. What is he doing here, braving the rain when there’s no album left to work on?

Then a rumble in the sky makes him remember the conflict he came here for. He’s here to fix the band. He doesn’t even necessarily want to record anything; he just wants to stop more friends from leaving the process.

Five minutes later, Mark’s sitting on one of the sofas in the Notting Hill studio, away from the rain. His coat hangs over the radiator to dry, and there’s a large cup of tea in his hands to combat the cold. With his brand new boots being less waterproof than he thought, he’s even had to take off his socks.

‘It’s dreadful out, isn’t it?’ Mark asks Howard and Jason, who nod.

Their first meeting since the charity event, they’re all sat in the former church’s biggest studio, with Howard manning the mixing desk this time. Gary and Robbie aren’t there, and they haven’t written a single lyric since they got there. The guys from the documentary weren’t invited.

‘I suppose it’s fitting, in a way,’ is all Jason says, and he doesn’t have to add anything else. They all know exactly what he’s hinting at: Rob’s shock departure from the band that weekend. None of them could have seen it coming — not even Mark, who usually knows exactly what Robbie’s feeling.

‘I just hope he’s all right,’ Mark sighs. He hasn’t stopped worrying about Rob since Saturday morning. ‘Gaz, too. I haven’t heard from him yet, have you?’

Jason shakes his head. Knowing the value of giving people their space, he hasn’t tried getting in touch with his bandmates at all.

‘The last thing I heard Gaz his was his text sayin’ he’d be here at eight,’ Howard says, with a look at the clock above the exit. It’s a quarter past ten. ‘That didn’t really work out, did it?’

Nervous, Mark starts fumbling with the frilly bits at the end of his scarf. He tries to sound positive and hopeful even though he feels nothing but. ‘He’s probably just stuck in traffic. He’ll be here any minute now.’

‘Doubt it, mate,’ says Howard, who isn’t feeling positive and hopeful at all. He hazards the question he’s been meaning to ask all morning. ‘Do you think he’s just not showin’ up cos he knows why Robbie left?’

Mark shrugs. He has a feeling that Gary was somehow involved in Rob’s departure, but he doesn’t want to bring it up.

‘We all got the same text, didn’t we? Gary probably knows as much as we do. I guess it just hit him harder because of … you know. His feelings.’ Mark sighs before taking a final sip of tea and putting his empty cup on the table next to the mixing desk. ‘I just hope he doesn’t think it’s his fault.’

‘It _could_ be,’ Howard points out. ‘We don’t know what the two of them were up to when us three wasn’t lookin’.’

This makes the conversation enter unchartered waters that Jason doesn’t feel comfortable discussing, so he changes the subject before they can say something hurtful. _If_ Robbie and Gary were indeed involved romantically, then that’s none of their business.

‘I’m more worried about whether we should bring up the subject at all,’ Jay says. ‘Robbie’s departure, I mean. I don’t want to push Gary into talking about things he doesn’t feel comfortable with.’

‘We kinda have to, though, don’t we?’ Howard replies with an edge. He waves a hand at the mixing desk in front of him. ‘We can’t just pretend nothing’s happened when we was already halfway through finishin’ the record. I know it probably makes me sound like an awful person, Jay, but I’m not givin’ up on these songs just cos Robbie left!’

‘See, that’s what I was so afraid of, How. I think we _shouldn’t_ use these songs,’ Jason respectfully disagrees. His eyes flicker at the notebooks next to Howard’s feet. There must be about twenty unfinished songs in there that Howard and Robbie wrote together. ‘I don’t think they’re still our stories to tell now that Robbie’s gone.’

‘He’s not _dead_ , Jay.’

‘I know, but can you really honestly say that a song like _The Flood_ would still make sense with just the four of us singin’ it? The entire concept of those lyrics is us becoming men and overcoming our private hardships to become the band we are now, as a five-piece. That narrative includes Robbie. I really do believe we shouldn’t use it.’

Howard scoffs. ‘The fans won’t know that, though, won’t they? They won’t give a shit, let’s be honest.’

Howard waits for Mark and Jason to agree with him, but they firmly keep their mouths shut. Even Mark, who usually has everything and nothing to say about their songs, isn’t saying anything. To Howard, it’s proof that they both think they should completely scrap the album they’ve already been working on.

‘Are you havin’ a laugh?’ Howard sounds exasperated. ‘We can’t just _start over_ , lads. Come on.’

‘We’ve done it before,’ Mark mumbles. He’s been fumbling with his scarf to such an extent that little bits of wool and fluff cover his lap.

‘So you agree with Jay, then?’

‘I’m not sayin’ I agree, I just — I agree about not usin’ songs like _The Flood_. As Jay said, do we really wanna put that song on a four-piece album knowing that Rob wrote it with all of us in mind? It wouldn’t be right.’ Mark looks down at his scarf and readjusts it unnecessarily. ‘I hate that we even have to discuss this, anyway. Especially when we don’t know how Rob’s feeling. We all know what he’s like, don’t we? He could be in a lot of pain right now.’

The others hum soft sounds of agreement. Jay asks Mark whether Robbie’s gotten in touch with him.

‘He hasn’t, no.’

‘That’s not like him.’

‘I know. That’s what worries me. It’s like him and Gary have completely disappeared.’

Howard smirks. He attempts a joke to lift the air. ‘You don’t think the two of them have finally eloped, then?’

Jason shifts uncomfortably in his desk chair while Mark shoots Howard a stern look.

‘That wasn’t funny, Howard,’ Mark chides.

Howard opens his mouth to protest that he was only trying to lighten the mood, but Jason gives him a disapproving shake of his head that kills their conversation and fills the room with silence.

Jay has long suspected that Robbie and Gary have done the opposite of eloping, and he knows that Howard and Mark probably have the same suspicions. Robbie Williams, for all his faults, doesn’t just leave Take That for nothing; there’s more at play here, and it all leads back to Gaz.

***

Time passes slowly. They hardly speak. They do drink a lot of tea, but they don’t write a single song because something feels offs. Gary has always been their leader, for better or worse, so it’s hard to decide what to do. Without him and Robbie there, the only thing Mark, Howard and Jason can do is wait and hope for the best, as they have done all morning.

It makes for a frustrating day. Mark looks anxious all morning. Jason hardly talks as he keeps disappearing into the kitchen to make more tea. Howard occasionally laughs at a dirty picture on his phone, only to mumble a ‘sorry’ when Mark shoots him a disapproving look and mumbles something about being glad that the guys from the documentary aren’t there. Little threads of wool stick out of Mark’s scarf by the time the clock strikes half past ten.

Gary still hasn’t shown up.

Having exhausted his text messages of dirty mages from mate, Howard has no choice but to put away his phone. He looks at the clock again. ‘I don’t think Gary is gonna come in today, do you?’

Mark gives a sad shake of his head. ‘I don’t think, so no.’ Then he stops to listen. ‘Wait a minute, can you hear footsteps?’

They all listen. Mark’s right: there’s the sound of quick, short footsteps downstairs. The footsteps stop for a minute as if pausing to talk to someone, then become louder as they move up the stairs to the studio.

A moment later, the door to Studio 1 swings open and Gary Barlow finally shows up, rain-soaked. With his laptop case in his right hand and a take-out herbal tea from Costa Coffee in the other, he looks ready for a day’s worth of writing, but his eyes don’t. His eyes are faded and bloodshot, like he’s been crying all morning.

He has.

It’s a sad, sorry sight that makes Mark get up from his chair to give Gary a big hug, but Gary has already made a beeline for the mixing desk. He anxiously retrieves his laptop from his case, puts it on the desk and flips it open immediately, hardly acknowledging that the others are there. The only attention they’re getting is the disappointed look Gary gives Howard when he sees that Howard’s claimed his favourite desk chair.

The display is one of the strangest things Mark, Howard and Jason have ever seen. Usually, Gary spends the first half hour of a writing or session making tea and asking everyone what they’ve been up to. This time, he doesn’t ask his mates how they’re feeling at all. He doesn’t welcome their worried smiles. He just starts blurting out naïve nonsense about the album like nothing’s ever happened:

‘So I was thinkin’, all right, if we re-recorded all of Rob’s bits now, we’d still have seven songs for the new album,’ Gary gasps. He sounds like he’s been running. ‘That’s seven songs we could send to Stuart if we still wanna work with him. We wouldn’t have to waste anything, and we write about one new song every week anyway so if we end up with better material we could just get rid of everything else.’

His coat still on, Gary hardly takes a moment to catch his breath. He just keeps going, never looking up from his laptop as he does. It’s like he’s taken the storm from the streets inside the studio:

‘I also had a look at the lyrics Howard did a few days ago and got rid of all the bits Rob added. It’s a promising track, that. I’ve got till seven tonight and after that I’m doin’ this thing for another charity event so if we could finish the song before then, that’d be brilliant.’

This half-rambled, unhinged monologue goes on for another couple of minutes, with Gary giving his mates more and more orders as the minutes pass. You can tell that he’s trying to pretend Robbie hasn’t left the band by just looking at him.

Worried, Mark opens his mouth to politely ask Gary how he’s doing and has he eaten and would he like to sit down, but Howard’s a second quicker. He also sounds a lot less friendly.

‘Fucking hell, Gaz, have you just heard yourself? Have you even _slept_? You need to calm the fuck down.’

‘Of course I’ve fucking _slept_ , How,’ Gary snaps. He finally takes off his coat and carelessly throws it over a chair before sitting down. He’s still eyeing his favourite desk chair that Howard rudely took from him. ‘Can we get back to work now? _Please_?’

This rubs Howard up the wrong way. He’s had his fair share of Mark and Jason being moody little shits in the morning, but they never treated him this poorly.

‘Are you serious, Gaz? You can’t just blunder in ‘ere and start throwing fucking orders around like it’s nineteen fucking ninety-two.’ Howard looks at his bandmates for help, but Mark seems to have disappeared into the folds of his scarf, and Jay looks like he’s trying to come up with a dignified remark that will come ten minutes too late. Howard’s alone in this. ‘I don’t know if you noticed, Gary, but Robbie left. He _left_. We can’t just sit ‘ere and pretend like we’re all right. We need to talk about this.’

Gary’s look could have burned Howard’s skin. He demonstratively starts up the program he uses to write his songs on his laptop. By now, his coat has landed in a puddle of fabric on the floor. ‘We didn’t talk about it the first time round. _You_ didn’t.’

‘We was in our twenties!’

Gary shrugs. The tone of his voice makes him sound younger, like a stubborn child. It reminds Mark of the bitter young man who used to deny his feelings for Rob back in the nineties. ‘So? Rob made his decision then like he has now. He’s given up on us, he has. There’s nothing left to talk about, and I’m not about to give up the seven songs we finished. Life goes on, Dougie. I’m sorry.’

Gary’s tone takes his bandmates by surprise. After the reunion, Gary Barlow became a man who loved talking to his bandmates. Over time, Gary learned to love sharing and listening and everything in between. He learned to appreciate his bandmates’ little idiosyncrasies, like Mark never taking his hat off or Howard occasionally checking his phone for dirty texts. It’s all part of the Take That package, and he loves every single part of it.

But this behaviour right here? This is just _cold_. Right now, Gary resembles the detached workaholic he used to be, not the adult man the comeback allowed him to turn into. It’s like the twenty-two-year-old version of himself has descended back into his body and taken over his soul.

The others try to point this out to him, but Gary doesn’t listen. He insists he feels fine and constantly reminds his mates that he just wants to do his job even though he looks like he hasn’t slept for days.

After ten minutes of having to listen to Gary’s nonsense, Mark decides he’s had enough. He wasn’t going to be hard on Gary because he knows how much Robbie means to him, but this is just ridiculous. They shouldn’t have to suffer just because Gary refuses to face his feelings.

‘Gary? A word?’

‘One moment, Mark.’ Gary doesn’t look up from his laptop. He keeps typing away, his eyes set on a meaningless set of lyrics on his screen. Howard and Jason both know he’s just trying to look occupied, and they give Mark a consenting nod; a wordless call for intervention. Gary needs an intervention.

‘Your song can wait, Mr. Barlow.’ Mark gets up and demonstratively closes Gary’s laptop. Gary has just enough time to pull away his fingers. ‘A _word_ , now. Please.’

Gary opens his mouth to protest, but he can tell by Mark’s strict, firm look that there’s no point arguing. He heaves an exaggerated groan, mumbles something about how he doesn’t have _time_ to talk, then follows Mark into a second studio down the hallway.

The second studio is empty, but Mark still closes the door behind him and turns on the lights. When the lights flicker on, the full scale of the studio becomes apparent. The room is a lot bigger than Studio 1, and there are pedals, music books, framed gold records and instruments everywhere you look.

Gary would normally have jumped at the chance to play the white Yamaha in the corner, but he remains impassive in front of the closed door, his hands trembling against his sides.

‘What’s going on with you, Gaz?’ Mark nods his head in the general direction of Studio 1. ‘I didn’t even recognise you back there.’

Gary crosses his arms to make himself look stronger, but he doesn’t look strong at all. He looks like a single gust of wind might break him. ‘I just wanna finish the album, Mark,’ he whispers. ‘Is that so wrong?’

‘Without even speaking to us, though? Without even saying _hello_?’ Mark feels as frustrated as he did when the two of them first discussed Gary’s feelings two months ago. It’s like that conversation never even happened.  ‘You can’t just come in ‘ere like Robbie hasn’t left, Gaz. That’s not who we are anymore. We talk things through. We tell each other how we feel. _That’s what we do_ , you know.’

Gary makes a frustrated expression. ‘What is there to talk about, Mark? Are you really that surprised that he left? _Are_ you, really? It was always gonna fucking happen. You know that as well as I do.’

‘Was it, though, Gaz?’ A beat. Mark doesn’t bother softening the blow of his next words. ‘Or did you just _make_ it happen?’

Gary tenses. He averts his eyes to a framed gold record on the wall. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do, Gaz. I think you know very, very well what I mean, and unless you tell me what happened on Saturday I can’t help you. None of us can.’ Mark was going to end his little lecture there, but then he changes his mind. He needs Gary to see sense, even if it means being harsh on him. ‘And, you know, I’m sorry for havin’ to say this, Gaz, but if you’re gonna spend the next two or three months comin’ in ‘ere like a moody teenager you might as well not come at all. We’re not twenty anymore. We’ve all got our own stuff goin’ on that makes us feel like not goin’ to work sometimes, but we still show up. We still treat each other with respect. That means takin’ the time to _talk_ about whatever happened between you and Rob.’

Mark’s words seem to have touched a soft spot. Gary swallows. He shoves his trembling hands into his pockets, still refusing to look Mark in the eye, like he’s ashamed of something or himself.

‘Gary.’ Mark, trying still. ‘You can tell me what happened, you know. I won’t judge.’

This helps. Gary finally allows the words to flow out of him.

‘What – what if what happened is really bad, though, Mark?’ Gary starts stammering. All the rudeness has left his voice. He’s no longer bossy or upset — just deadly afraid of what has come to pass. ‘What if it’s so bad that I don’t know how to move on from it?’

‘For you or for Rob?’

Gary can’t stop his voice from cracking. He can no longer keep his emotions bottled up inside. ‘Both of us.’

‘Then we’ll fix it together.’

Mark grabs Gary’s hand, and Gary hates how badly he wishes he had Rob’s hand to hold instead. He wishes the studio and the chairs and the air and everything else was made of Rob’s very own stardust so he could breathe Rob in again and make him his own.

‘But first I need to know what happened, Gaz. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me anything.’

Gary lets out a shaky breath. His memory of the past few days is so blurry that he doesn’t even know where to begin. He doesn’t even _want_ to talk, really — he just wants to be swallowed up by the storm and forget anything ever happened.  

But Mark’s doesn’t see it that way. He understands the value of sharing his feelings more than anyone. ‘I promise I won’t judge, Gaz. Whatever it is, I’ll help. But you need to _tell_ me.’

Gary lets out a weak laugh. He knows what happened and how it made him feel, but he can’t put it together into a sentence. It’s like saying it out loud will make it real, and making it real will pull him deeper into a dark hole he doesn’t know how to get out of. The last time he hit rock bottom it took Gary nearly a decade to get out, and he doesn’t know what will pull him out now. Rob could, but Rob isn’t here. Rob has disappeared.

‘Mark, even if I did decide to tell you, I wouldn’t know _how_. I haven’t got a clue.’

‘Trust your gut. Just tell me whatever you feel comfortable telling.’

Gary considers it. It’s hard to feel like he’s being judged when Mark is holding his hand so comfortably. ‘When you said you wouldn’t judge . . . You won’t tell the others, right, Mark? This’ll stay between us.’

‘Of course. I mean, unless Howard and Jay are _eavesdropping_ or something.’

Here, Mark thinks he can hear the sound of an elbow hitting someone’s ribs at the door, then shuffling feet. He assumes it’s the kind receptionist downstairs and not Howard and Jason running away from the door.

‘But you won’t tell anyone,’ Gary reiterates.

‘Not a soul, Mr. Barlow.’

Gary takes another deep breath. He squeezes Mark’s hand for comfort, but it doesn’t help. He feels absolutely terrified as he stammers his words. ‘Rob and I . . . the reason he left . . .’

Saying it hurts. Gary feels tears sting his eyes, and he tries blinking them away. One of them manages to roll down his cheek still, and he quickly rubs the tear away with the back of his free hand.

‘I’m here for you, Gaz. Just say it. You’ll feel better.’

Gary tries again. He feels heat rush up his body as shame becomes the single overriding emotion in his mind. He can no longer stop himself from shaking.

‘The reason Rob left — it’s cos we . . . we . . . _It’s cos w-we had_ sex _, Mark._ ’ Gary whispers his admission, and the rest comes out as a stammered rush of words. ‘We had – we had s-sex, and the next morning I found his e-mail in me inbox, telling me h-he’d left. He l-left cos of me and now I’m bloody s-scared that he hates me and that I’m never gonna see him anymore and I just don’t know w-what to do anymore, Mark. I don’t know whether to t-text him or phone him or give up on h-him or – or —’

Mark can no longer watch. Without warning, he stands on tiptoes and throws his arms around Gary’s trembling body, holding him tight.

The steely, selfish armour leaves Gary upon contact. What’s left is just a shaking man in Mark’s arms, crying his heart out:

‘I’m s-so _s-scared_ , Mark. I’m so scared . . .’

‘It’s okay, Gaz. It’s okay . . . There you go, let it all out . . . _Ow_. . . maybe not hold me _so_ tight, though, Mr. Barlow, you’re squishin’ me . . .’

‘S-sorry . . .’

They stay like that for three minutes or more, just hugging. Every now and then Mark pats Gary’s back or kisses his cheeks, but it’s nothing like the real thing. _Rob_ is, but Rob isn’t here. Rob has left and broken Gary’s heart in a single lonely morning, and now it’s up to Mark to pick up the pieces.

Right now, only _Mark_ understands what Gary’s going through, for better or worse. He has to fix this, and he will. He has to. After all, that’s what mates are for.

Eventually, there comes a moment when Mark and Gary have to let go. Mark gives Gary a final, amicable kiss on the cheek and gives Gary the kind of smile only Mark Owen is capable of. ‘I’m so proud of you, Gaz.’

Gary wipes the last tears off his red cheeks. It makes him look like a child who’s been crying all day. ‘W-why?’ he asks, barely able to push out even the simplest of words. He tries again, but it comes out strangled. His flood of tears has dried up his throat.

‘Because you were honest. Because you told me the truth even though you could have chosen to keep your secret to yourself. That makes you very brave, you know.’

Gary lets out a tearful chuckle. ‘I feel awful, not brave!’

‘You know what’ll make you feel better, Mr. Barlow?’ Mark nods his head in the general direction of the door. ‘Not bein’ stuck in ‘ere all day. We could go outside and have a drink at the pub next door. Just the two of us.’

Gary glances at the window on Mark’s left-hand side. It’s covered in a dozen raindrops, all chasing each other till they melt together and carry on their journeys as one. It’s like the weather decided to mirror Gary’s feelings the moment his heart got broken.

‘But it’s raining,’ Gary points out through hiccups. He still hasn’t quite stopped shaking, and he absolutely dreads the idea of going back outside. He’d rather lock himself up in SARM Studios all day and never go back home again, ever. ‘We’ll get wet.’

‘So? We’ll be very quick, then.’

Mark nudges Gary’s elbow; gives his hand another squeeze. He knows that Gary thinks that if he stays here he’ll be able to write away the pain, but writing has never helped Gary at all. Gary Barlow writes best when his life is a kaleidoscope _dream_ , not when it’s grey, muddled and dark. Gary needs the warmth of a hug and the beauty of ordinary life to inspire him, not its downfalls.

Being here will only turn Gary into the cold, distant workaholic he once was.

Mark tells him. ‘Look, Gaz, I know you probably wanna write five songs in a row, but the record can wait, you know. _All_ of this can. You’d only be writing cos you need somethin’ to distract you, anyway. It wouldn’t be real, would it? You wouldn’t be writin’ cos you really _want_ to — you’d only be doin’ it cos you think it makes you feel better ‘bout what happened between you and Rob.’

Gary doesn’t look convinced. He’s not so sure if he wants to sit in the pub next door all morning and tell Mark how Rob left him. Isn’t the simple truth that he and Rob made love enough? Does Mark really need to know more than that? Didn’t they _all_ get the same text?

‘I don’t know, mate,’ Gary tells Mark as much. His hiccupping has stopped, but there’s a slight stammer to his voice still. ‘I’d rather stay here and not talk about it for the rest of me life, if you don’t mind. I don’t know what else there is to say other than that Rob left the band because of me.’

That won’t do. Mark tries a different tact. ‘I’ll pay for your drink? Green tea? You like green tea, don’t you? Or a smoothie. Do pubs sell smoothies? I don’t think pubs sell smoothies.’

Gary twitches. He hasn’t had anything to drink since that morning. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t even eaten yet. The ache in his stomach completely made him forget it.

‘All right. _Two_ drinks,’ Gary acquiesces out at last. ‘And some food. But I don’t want you tellin’ the others about this, mate. I know Jay keeps bangin’ on about how we’re supposed to tell each other everything, but the moment I find out Dougie knows I had sex with Rob I’m burnin’ that bloody hat you wear every day. I mean it, Mark. This stays between the two of us.’

‘No tellin’ the others. Got it.’

Gary utters a mumbled ‘thanks’ before looking down as if someone brought up a painful memory. He rests his hand on a desk chair for support and thinks hard about what he’s going to say next.

‘And also, I’m — I’m sorry I was such a dick to you earlier. Comin’ in like I owned the place, I mean.’ Gary colours. Only now that he’s found a place for the pain, he can recognise the effects his heartache has had on those around him. Including Mark. ‘I should have — I don’t know, maybe I should have stayed home after all. Worked from home, that kinda thing.’

‘And feel sorry for yourself there? _Nah._ ’ Mark brushes away the subject with a casual wave of his hand. _‘_ Anyway, you think _I’ve_ never come in ‘ere feelin’ like shit? Cos I have, you know. It’s just how we deal with it that matters. I don’t think I’ve ever been mad at you guys, ever. Well, apart from when you refused to admit you fancied you-know-who. That made me quite mad.’

Gary makes a face as though he doesn’t really agree with Mark’s saying.

‘You _did_ get very angry when I accidentally mistook your scarf for a blanket, though, Marko,’ Gary points out. In remembering the amusing incident, his heartache fades into the background for four blissful seconds. ‘Same when Howard suddenly told you he didn’t like _Clementine_ the other day. I thought you were going to strangle him for it, you looked so annoyed.’

Mark rolls his eyes. ‘I liked you better when you were cryin’ on my shoulder, Mr. Barlow,’ he says, smiling.

Gary rubs his eyes one final time and expects there to be tears, but there are none. His face almost betrays a smile when Mark stands on tiptoes and kisses his forehead. You can’t fix a broken heart, but you can glue it back together again, bit by bit, piece by piece, as long as you’re willing to _talk_.

***

Mark doesn’t want to make Gary feel uncomfortable, so he doesn’t mention Robbie on their way to a cosy pub on a street corner. There’s a small terrace outside, but the chairs are vacant and wet. Instead, pub regulars and tourists crowd together at the tables near the heating, still wearing their coats and scarf.  

Mark and Gary politely order their drinks at the empty bar, and they stay there for the rest of the morning. It’s still raining outside. The clouds can’t decide whether to stay or go, and light showers alternate between torrential downpours. Occasionally Gary thinks someone’s taking photos of them, but it’s just thunder and lightning illuminating the London skies. Ill at ease, Gary doesn’t relax again till the barmaid hands them their teapots and cups.

Once they’ve poured their green teas into their cups, the boys sip their drinks in silence and take in their stereotypically British surroundings at the bar. They’re the only ones there; around them, regulars enjoy scrambled eggs and sandwiches at the wooden tables at the windows. Until a pub regular decides to take a seat at the bar twenty minutes later, they’ll be sat there on their own with their backs turned to the world, unknown to everyone.

‘Has the weather ever been this bad this time of year?’ This comes from Mark. The scent of beer fills the air, and he privately compliments himself for having tea rather than something alcoholic.

‘Dunno. Probably. I never pay it much attention,’ Gary shrugs. ‘I bet _you’re_ lovin’ it, though. Didn’t you buy that expensive new coat the other day?’

‘Decided not to in the end. I’m savin’ up for a guitar now.’

This makes Gary snort. ‘Did you not get your pay packet from the previous tour, Mark?’

‘I did, but Jay keeps tellin’ me I’ve got to be more sensible with my money. He’s right, you know. We can’t all splash out our money on _Star Wars_ memorabilia like you.’

Gary cringes. The mention of _Star Wars_ reminds him of Rob, and his mind’s eye decides to bring up the image of Rob fondling his very real and expensive lightsaber in his living room.

‘I wish you hadn’t mentioned that, now I’m thinkin’ ‘bout Rob again.’ When Gary can see that Mark doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he furrows his brow and whispers, ‘Me and him spent some time talking about me _Star Wars_ merch on Friday, when you guys were downstairs.’

Mark remembers the two of them being gone for a suspiciously time long that night. ‘Is that when you . . . ?’

Gary gives a sad, solemn shake of his head, and that marks the end of their conversation.

They continue drinking in silence. Gary spends an age just staring into his teacup, and Mark seems to have found some sort of quiet comfort in following the drops of rain as they chase each other down the window.

Occasionally, Mark stops to stare out of the window to look at Gary. Even though he still looks sad, Gary does look better already. His eyes aren’t as red. His body occasionally trembles, but it’s only from the cold. There’s obviously still a lot of hurt that Mark doesn’t know about, but at least Gary appears to be on the mend, physically. 

Mark tells Gary as much. He waits till the barmaid walks away from them to serve a brand new customer who’s just joined them at the bar. Mark vaguely recognises the customer from a previous visit, but the customer doesn’t recognise him, which is just as well because Mark and Gary are about to discuss some very private matters.

‘You look better than this morning, by the way, Gaz. Happier.’

Gary scoffs. He knows Mark means it as a compliment, but that’s not how it reaches his heart. ‘I feel fucking numb, Mark. Not happy.’

‘I know.’ Mark gives him a small smile that Gary doesn’t respond to. ‘Still. At least you’re ‘ere. That’s a good sign, you know. It means you’re willing to heal.’

‘I guess.’

‘I mean it, Gaz. You’re doin’ well ‘ere.’

Gary ignores the compliment and proceeds to stare into his tea again, deeply lost in thought. He runs circles over the rim of his cup with his fingers until something makes him look up again.

‘You know what really bothers me, Mark? I mean, really _fucking_ bothers me?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘What bothers you?’

Gary hesitates. He’s not sure whether he really wants to say this out loud, or at all. Saying it might only make him feel worse.  

Wanting to know, Mark smiles at Gary again. He pushes him ever so gently. ‘You know can tell me anything, don’t you, Gaz?’

Gary swallows. He stops for a second when the barmaid looks in Mark’s direction, then lowers his voice when she starts tapping beer for only other customer sat at the bar. ‘It’s how much I loved it, Mark. I mean, what me and Rob did . . . it was something else, that was. I can’t stop thinking about it. Every single thing in me house reminds me of it and it’s driving me bloody _nuts_.’

It’s the first time Gary has really mentioned his first time with Rob. It’s a good sign; it means he’s ready to talk.

‘Would me askin’ you what he was like be considered an awkward question, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary blushes. ‘Guess not.’

‘What was he like?’

Gary stares into his cup of tea again. ‘Good.’ His mouth can’t decide whether to laugh or cry at that, so he lets out an unflattering snort. ‘I mean, quite good, mate. Be easier if he hadn’t been . . .’

Then Gary sobers again, and Mark has to squeeze his hand for support. Remnants of that morning’s outburst of tears still linger in Gary’s body, and Mark knows Gary’s just one tucked-away memory away from remembering his heartache again.

Still, Gary’s talking about it. It’s good. It means he’s healing.

‘I just wish I knew why he left, Mark,’ Gary sighs. He has to blink away tears, and he hopes the barmaid doesn’t notice when she looks in their direction again. ‘I get not wanting to stick around in the morning to have a cuddle and a kiss, but just leaving the band like that and blaming _me_ . . . I was convinced that we were doing a good job ‘ere, Mark. We were happy. We all were. So why give up on that? Who does that? I can’t have been _that_ terrible.’

Mark gives Gary a warm smile. ‘It’s not always about that, you know.’

‘What else could it have been? I didn’t even get to tell him I’m actually in love with him. He’ll just think of me as a one-night stand.’

Two pub regulars walk past them with glasses of beer with their hands, and Mark has to lower his voice. ‘Like I said, Gaz, Rob’s not the kind of person to stick around. He has sex for fun. So _maybe_ when he woke up and saw you there, he realised that he likes you more than just a one-night stand and panicked. It would explain why he left the band and e-mailed you like that. If you two didn’t have such a complicated history he _probably_ would have come in today and flirted with you. You know, teased you and stuff. But he didn’t, and I think that shows that he’s very confused about how he feels about you. He could be trying to figure things out on his own.’

‘I don’t know, mate.’ Gary sighs. A young woman with a cup of tea in her red hands looks at them with a vague look of recognition on her face, then shrugs and takes her seat somewhere else. ‘He seemed pretty adamant that I had been a mistake in the e-mail he sent me. He even told me I was crap in the text he sent me later.’

‘I doubt he really meant that, Gaz. The Rob _I_ know has never intentionally broken someone’s heart, ever. He may be scared and confused, but that doesn’t mean he wants to hurt you. He just wants to trick himself into thinking he doesn’t actually like you. He always does that. Believe me, I know.’

This exchange doesn’t really answer Gary’s questions. Rather, they fill his head with questions he’s never wanted to consider before: how come Mark knows so much about Robbie’s love life? Even _Gary_ doesn’t know all these things, and he’s fancied Rob his entire adult life!

‘Mark, mate, I know you’re probably gonna hate me for even thinkin’ about this, but I have to ask . . .’ Gary feels like an awful person for just bringing it up, and he colours fervently. He doesn’t want to ask, but he’s going to do it anyway. ‘Were you and Rob ever, you know, _together_?’

Mark laughs a little too loudly, and everyone in the pub looks at him. Thankfully, no-one recognises him with a scarf smothering his neck. ‘No.’

‘So you never . . . ?’

‘Never, Mr. Barlow.’

Gary instantly feels terrible for bringing it up. ‘Sorry, I just – I wasn’t – I’m not sayin’ that you’re –’

‘I know. I don’t mind. I know me and Rob used to be close in the nineties.’

‘You still are.’

‘I dunno about that,’ Mark shrugs. ‘Me and Rob — I don’t know, we’d just have a lot of fun. That’s all it ever was. You know, we’d play football and go to clubs to check out girls, but we never really _talked_. I knew that Rob was depressed, but he never brought it up so I never mentioned it. With _you_ , though, he’s finally found someone he can look up to. He relates to you, and I think he needs that more than a mate he can have fun with like me.’

‘Looking up to someone is not the same as lovin’ them, though.’

‘For him, it might be. I mean, the only reason he even stayed this long, is _you_ , you know. It’s cos you convinced him to. If you hadn’t been there for him through all anxiety and the filming of the documentary and the _X Factor_ stuff, he’d have left much earlier. But he didn’t, is what I’m sayin’. You talked to him about whatever it is he’s going through, and it helped. He got stronger. He _needs_ you _,_ and I think the reason he left the band is cos he finally figured that out. He doesn’t hate you or regret havin’ sex with you — he’s just _scared,_ Gaz. He’s just scared. Weren’t _you_ , when you found out you liked Rob?’

Gary’s throat feels dry. He can see what Mark’s saying, but he still doesn’t want to believe. Believing it potentially makes it real — and potentially disastrous if it turns out to be false. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up and have his dreams crushed forever more.

‘I don’t know, Mark,’ Gary says as much. Mark’s words haven’t softened his ache from that morning. If anything, they’ve brought the ache back to the surface. ‘It sounds an awful lot like wishful thinkin’ to me.’

‘It always is, though, isn’t it? Love doesn’t just happen, you make it _work_. Both sides.’

Gary swallows. ‘So what are you sayin’, Mark? What do you suggest I _do_?’

‘Tell him how you feel,’ Mark suggests, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He’s clearly never fancied a band member before.

‘Can’t, Mark. He said he never wants to see me again.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Suppose so.’

Gary puts his cup to his lips for another sip, only to find it empty. Mark notices instantly, and he quickly flashes his trademark smile at the barmaid and asks her for a refill. Three minutes later, the barmaid returns with two fresh pots of Earl Grey and a plate of chocolate biscuits, on the house. Mark thanks her politely, and the young woman gives him a grateful smile that Gary doesn’t see because he’s too busy being broken-hearted.

‘Look, I get what you’re sayin’, Mark, I really do, but I don’t know if I even _wanna_ see Rob again after what we did.’ Gary pours a spoonful of milk into his tea and starts stirring fervently. ‘I’d happily not think about him for the rest of me life, to be honest. I just wanna get over him and move on.’

Mark pops one of the biscuits into his mouth. ‘Let _me_ talk to him, then.’

‘Why?’

‘So he’ll realize that he loves you, of course.’

Gary scoffs. Despite Mark’s kind reassurances, he refuses to believe there’s still a hope for him and Rob. Even if Mark is right and Rob needing him and _somewhat_ fancying him, that doesn’t necessarily make Rob willing to talk.

‘I love you, Mark, but did you just miss the bit when I said Rob never wanted to see me again? Do I have to show you the texts? He literally told me he thought I was crap in bed, so I don’t know how you talking to him will make any difference.’

‘Of _course_ it will.’

‘Oh, come on, mate.’ Gary sets his jaw. He tries to look strong even though he doesn’t feel strong at all. ‘Rob made his choice when he left the band. That doesn’t necessarily mean me heart doesn’t fucking ache, all right, but what _else_ am I supposed to do? What are you even gonna say to him? This isn’t one of those childish middle school situations where I’m askin’ you to slip a love letter into me crush’s locker. This is real, Mark. It’s over.’

‘I can at least _try_ ,’ Mark says, with a laughably positive attitude. It’s like he hasn’t even been listening. ‘If that doesn’t work out, we’ll never mention Rob again. Promise. We’ll release this album as a four-piece and do the tour on our own. Cos that _is_ what you want, isn’t it, Mr. Barlow?’

Mark makes it sound terribly final. Gary’s eyes well up with tears, and he has to blink them away. Despite the very real possibility of Robbie giving up halfway through, Gary always believed that this album would be the best, biggest thing to have ever happened to him. To _all_ of them. This would be their masterpiece; their imperial phase.

But now, their empire has ended half a year too soon. The only things that are left are seven or eight songs and a handful of lyrics that no longer make sense. Rob has taken their meaning along with him.

‘Y-yeah. I wanna release this album still,’ Gary lies. The stammer in his voice belies the doubt he feels inside, and he tries saying it again, without luck. ‘If Rob does come back I’d be really, really pleased, mate, but I don’t think he will no matter how hard you try.’

‘You could at least have a bit more faith in me, Mr. Barlow.’ Mark takes a final sip of tea and gently puts down his cup. The barmaid makes a gesture as if to ask Mark if he’d like another, but he shakes his head and looks at Gary questioningly. ‘What’s that _Star Wars_ quote you put up in your studio when we were recordin’ _The Circus_? Something about doin’ your best?’

Gary struggles to understand what Mark’s talking about, then he remembers the motivational _Star Wars_ postcards he once bought on holiday in L.A. He didn’t think anyone would notice him taping to his mixing desk. ‘ _Do or do not. There is no try_. That’s the quote, I think.’

Mark makes an unimpressed face. ‘It doesn’t sound very inspirational said out loud.’

‘It doesn’t, does it?’ Gary cringes. ‘Why bring it up, though?’

‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?  If you don’t try, you’ll never know. Maybe if I talk to Rob about what happened, something good will come out of it. He could change his mind.’

‘And here I was thinking you were just tryin’ to ruin _Star Wars_ for me.’

‘I thought you’d already done that yourself by showing Rob your lightsaber, Mr. Barlow.’

Gary lets out a bark of a laugh. ‘I hope you’re talking about me expensive piece of science-fiction memorabilia, mate.’

Mark hums. ‘What _else_ would I be talkin’ about? It’s good to hear you laugh, though, Gaz.’

Gary’s mouth twitches. He stares into his empty cup before giving Mark a warm, appreciative smile. ‘Thanks, mate. I know I’ve been a handful today, but I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’ve been so supportive. You’ve been absolutely brilliant, you really have, mate. I do still think it’s a lost cause, though, this thing with Rob. I don’t see how talkin’ to him will help if he won’t even reply to me e-mails . . .’

‘See, Mr. Barlow, that’s where I think you’re wrong.’ Seeing that Gary has finished his tea too, Mark digs his hands into his pockets to find some spare change. He ends up leaving the barmaid quite a large tip before hopping off his stool and putting on his expensive winter coat. ‘I think your relationship with him is just about to begin, you know. I really do believe that.’

Gary cringes as he gets off his stool too. ‘You sound like a fucking matchmaker.’

‘Do I? Now that you mention it, I don’t think Rob would have come back at all if I hadn’t found your phone on me sofa and e-mailed Rob on your behalf last year. . .’

‘You mean if you hadn’t _stolen my phone_ last year.’

Mark feigns innocence. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Barlow. Now, shall we? The others are probably wondering where we’ve gone by now . . .’

‘They could think _we’re_ in a relationship, we’ve been gone so long,’ Gary jokes, and Mark laughs so hard that the other customers are tricked into thinking they’re in on the joke.

‘You wish, Gaz.’

‘Maybe I do!’

‘ _Nah_. I’m not your type,’ Mark says, annoyingly hopeful and positive still. He may view Gary and Rob’s love affair with the hopelessly confident eyes of a child, but he has every reason to. He _wants_ to.

After all, love is everything, and everything else is an afterthought; just insignificant melodies, riding along the waves of the flood.

  
A LONELY WEDNESDAY – NOVEMBER 2009 – LOS ANGELES

The fridge is empty. Rob knows that, but he’s hopeful still. Perhaps if he looks again, food will magically appear in front of him.

Alas: light fills the dark kitchen as Rob slowly opens his expensive red Smeg fridge, and the shelves are still as empty as ever. There are no eggs, chicken breasts, vegetables, drinks or single tubs of yoghurt. Only a sad carton of milk stops the fridge from being completely empty, but Rob bought it six weeks ago. It’s long gone off.

Rob closes the fridge again. He doesn’t bother throwing away the milk. Dark envelops his cold, stark kitchen in L.A., and he briefly feels disoriented as if he just woke up from a bad dream.

He doesn’t even know what day it is, just that it’s November and that he hasn’t been outside for six days. He _thinks_ it’s five in the morning, but it might as well be eight in the evening. He hasn’t looked at the clock since he got here.

Rob’s stomach rumbles. He’s hungry; he hasn’t eaten a proper meal for two or three days. He tried going to the local supermarket yesterday, but going outside isn’t easy when the world is this scary and intimidating. It isn’t really, but it feels like it is. Every time Rob so much puts on his jacket and shoes and reaches the door with his keys in his hands, it’s like he stumbles into a wall. His heart rate will go up and his body will start sweating as though he’s about to perform in front of a massive audience.

There seems to be an invisible barrier between Rob and the front door, and the barrier wins every day. No matter how long he paces up and down his living room to build up the courage to leave, he simply can’t leave. It’s like he’s stuck there forever.

The feeling – which a quick Google search told him might be a bad case of agoraphobia – isn’t new. For some inexplicable reason, Robbie Williams started fearing the world the moment he went back home. He hopped on the first plane to L.A. only _hours_ after he had sex with Gaz, and he’s been there ever since: at home, in L.A., with all the curtains drawn.

Rob’s fear of the outside world has become far too strong for him, so he’s been living off fast food and pizzas for the six days he’s been here. He hasn’t spoken to a single soul. Even heading to his backyard is an insurmountable battle he can’t win, like his depression. In his fucked-up mind, there will always an irrational fear that’s stronger than his need for human contact.

His mood has worsened too. In Take That Robbie felt happy and comfortable, but in L.A. he’s felt nothing but sadness. Despair. He thought the sunshine would help him feel better, but it hasn’t helped him at all. Rob hasn’t stopped feeling shit since he got here, and instead of blaming it on the fast food and the rogue chemicals in his brain he’s blamed it on Gary. He fucking hates him now.  

Except — he doesn’t. Not really. Rob likes Gaz. Loves him, even. He _knows_ he does, but it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t feel anything at all. It’s easier to blame Gary for his feelings and his sadness and his fears than admitting he loved shagging him. It always is. It’s what Robbie did in the nineties, and it’s what he’s going to do now: convince himself he feels one way when he actually feels the other. Depression is easier when you give it a face, anyway.

***

An hour later, Rob opens the fridge again: still empty, still that one carton of milk. His hunger is beginning to turn into a bad tummy ache, but he doesn’t want to add another empty pizza box to the increasing pile next to his trash can. His body craves fruit and veg. He needs something healthy before the lack of nutrients kills him. Even one of Jason’s godawful fruit juices would do.

Rob knows he can’t leave, so he returns to his fridge, restless and agitated. His head is filled with sadness and anxiety. It’s like he has a million thoughts running through him at once, peppering him like stones wherever he goes. Most of his thoughts are sad, stupid fears of social obligations he’ll one day have to face, but some of them are more real. They _sting._ They’re the memories of Gary digging his nails into his skin and kissing him. They’re the remnants of Rob’s night with his bandmate, haunting him still.

He’d rather feel depressed all day.

Time passes quickly and slowly at once. It’s hard to keep track of what day it is. Every now and then, Rob dozes off and wakes up again with a terrible pain in his tummy. He thinks it’s his need for a good meal, but it’s actually the ache in his soul. Stubbornly, he ignores the warning signs and stays inside all day with his curtains closed.

At a quarter to ten, Rob wakes up to the sound of his smartphone ringing. He was convinced he’d turned it off, so Rob drags himself off his couch and glances at his phone on the living room table. It’s an unknown number, so he lies back down again. He forgets to turn off his phone.

Gradually, Rob dozes off into another deep sleep until a loud ringing wakes him again. This time, he doesn’t bother getting up. He prays for the sound to stop, but it doesn’t. The phone just keeps going and going.

Rob tries to cover his ears with a pillow, but the sound doesn’t go away. Groggy and annoyed, he has no choice but to get up and turn off his phone. He wants to be disconnected from the world until people think he’s been kidnapped or worse. He wants people to forget him, eventually. That’s usually how it goes these days.  

Then he sees the name that’s blinking green on the screen. He stops in his tracks as his heart sinks into his shoes.

It’s not an unknown number.

It’s Mark.

Rob hesitates. He hasn’t been in touch with a member of Take That since he left the band an eternity ago. A part of him craves the connection, but his sense of shame is stronger. After all, his departure wasn’t good. It wasn’t amicable. He didn’t even tell them on the phone; he just ran away with his tail stuck between his legs, like a coward — like a nineteen-year-old version of himself, swapping manufactured pop for Oasis and festivals. He wasn’t kind to them then, and he’s not kind to them now, ignoring every single text and e-mail they’ve sent him. He’s been the worst friend and bandmate you could possibly be.

In spite of everything, Mark isn’t giving up. The phone keeps ringing. It’s an invasive sound, and Robbie very nearly throws his phone against the wall to make it stop. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it.

Something makes Rob pick up the phone instead. He makes the choice so spontaneously that he forgets he’s supposed to speak first.

‘You there, Rob?’

Hearing Mark makes Rob’s voice stutters awake. He hasn’t spoken for days. ‘Y-yeah. Sorry, mate.’

Rob doesn’t know what else to say, so he lets Mark do most of the talking instead. Mark’s voice brings back a wanderlust for better times with the Take That boys, and Rob has to pinch his eyes to get rid of it the feeling. He misses Mark, but he doesn’t want to admit missing anyone else. Doing so would be admitting that he made a terrible mistake and that he wants to get back in on the action. He doesn’t.

At least, he doesn’t think he does.

Mark has been talking for the past two minutes, just rambling on about how much he misses him. Because of his fatigue, Rob unintentionally doesn’t really listen to him until Mark suddenly mentions coming over.

‘I know we haven’t really been in touch lately, Rob, but I happen to be in the area to write with an American mate of mine and I was wonderin’ if you’d like me to come round? You can tell me if you don’t,’ Mark adds almost immediately.

Rob has to sit down. The prospect of seeing a member of Take That again makes him feel light in the head. Talking to Mark over the phone is one thing, but actually looking them in the eye is something else entirely. He feels a terrible bout of shame just thinking about it.

Mark seems to have read his thoughts. ‘It’ll just be the two of us, Rob. You and me. We could cook and watch TV and talk about anything you want me to. It won’t be a “work” sort of thing, just us bein’ together. Like mates. I promise I won’t ask you to talk about things you’re not comfortable with. I know you’re havin’ a hard time.’

Rob wants to say no, but his desperate mouth says yes. He needs to see Mark again. Anyone but Gaz _._ ‘All right, but I’m gonna need you to do somethin’ for me, mate.’

‘You name it, Rob.’

Saying it takes effort, and Rob’s glad Mark isn’t there to see the state he’s in. If he was, Mark would probably make him lunch and wrap him in a pile of blankets, like a child.

‘Could you bring me some food? Like, fruit and that. Could you do that for me?’ Rob glances at his kitchen, all stark white and sad and empty. ‘I haven’t really been able to go out and get anything to eat if you know what I mean.’

Rob releases a deep sigh into his phone, and he knows he doesn’t have to add anything else.

A couple of years ago, when his depression was at its worst and rehab was a very real and scary possibility, Mark used to help him out all the time. Back then, the only person Robbie ever spoke to was Mark. Everyone else was as far away as if they were on a different planet, just inconsequential stars he didn’t want to look up at. He liked being on his own, and his record label let him because Robbie Williams was already on his way to irrelevance anyway. It didn’t matter if he went outside or not, and it doesn’t matter now. Mark will understand.

At the other line, there’s the sound of someone tearing a piece of paper from a notebook as though Mark is about to write down a long shopping list. ‘You want anything in particular, Bob?’

Robbie feels better already. It’s good to know that Mark has his back still. If it had been up to Rob, he would probably never have gotten in touch with anyone at all. He would have let himself shrivel away in his living room.

But Mark isn’t letting him. Mark has been trying to get in touch with Rob ever since he left the band, desperate to nudge himself back into the world of the living. Mark’s a good man like that.

‘I’d just like some proper food, mate,’ says Rob. ‘Me fridge hasn’t been this empty since I moved in ‘ere a couple of years ago.’

‘Anything else? I could get you things other than food too, you know.’

Rob almost makes a joke about not minding Mark getting him drugs, but he knows how seriously Mark takes these things. He swallows his jibe. ‘Just get me some healthy stuff, Markie. Like, cucumbers and stuff. And what’s that fruit Jay was always eatin’? Avocadoes or something? You could get me that. Maybe some chocolate too. And cake. But not too much, cos I’ve already gained about ten pounds since I’ve been ‘ere. I don’t wanna be fat and depressed _and_ die of a heart attack.’

‘I’ll need you to pay me back, you know.’

Rob chuckles weakly. He knows Mark never asks him to pay back anything. Knowing him, Mark will probably come back with two shopping carts’ worth of food and toilet paper.

Speaking of: ‘Actually, could you get some toilet paper too, mate? Just ordinary paper, nothing fancy.’

‘Toilet paper, got it,’ Mark says. In the background, Robbie can hear the sound of a pen scribbling something down. ‘I guess I’ll see you in about an hour, then? It shouldn’t take me that long, I don’t think.’

Rob glances around his living room. It’s a right mess.

‘Maybe make that two, mate. I’m gonna have to do some cleanin’ before you get here.’ Then Rob catches his own reflection in the mirror and cringes. He looks like he’s been in the eye of a hurricane. ‘Actually, never mind that, Markie, make it three — I look like a fucking mess . . . What time will it be then? I don’t even know what day it is, to be honest . . .’

Mark mentions the exact date. ‘It’s ten now in the morning _now_ , so I’d be comin’ round at one, thereabouts. Would that work out you?’

It’s not too late to pretend he has someone else comin’ over, but Rob’s too tired to lie. He reluctantly says yes, and he slowly starts picking himself back up, piece by piece, starting with his living room.

***

Four large shopping bags. That’s what Mark Owen shows up with at Rob’s L.A. mansion that morning. Most bags are much heavier than he is, so he almost stumbles over his own two feet when he crosses the threshold. Having been there before, Mark immediately takes his reusable bags to the kitchen and stops to ask Rob where he wants him to put them.

‘D’you want me to put these bags anywhere in particular, Rob?’

‘Just put them on the kitchen counter, mate. Cheers.’

Mark carefully puts down the bags one by one, making sure that the more fragile products like the gluten-free rice crackers and the two cheeky bags of crisps don’t get squashed.

It’s clear that Rob has taken an effort to clean the kitchen that morning: there’s a smell of cleaning liquid still in the air, and the kitchen counter looks almost spotless. Apart from the empty pizza box next to the fridge, there is almost no litter at all. It’s a good sign: usually, Rob doesn’t bother cleaning during a crisis at all.

With his hands free, Mark can finally give Rob a big hug. The embrace is so warm and _tight_ and “I’m-here-for-you-mate-don’t-you-worry” that Rob can hardly breathe. Two seconds in, he desperately starts tapping Mark’s back and breathlessly urges him to let go.

Mark does so. He quickly apologises for hugging a bit too enthusiastically and takes in the man in front of him. The man looks and _sounds_ like Robbie Williams, but there’s a sadness in his eyes that Mark hasn’t seen for years. His posture is wrong — not at all popstar-like. His eyes are red. His hair is still wet from a recent shower, and he missed shaving a spot on his jaw. Rob obviously made an effort to make himself look better than he feels, but the mental scars his parting from the band are clear to see.

Still, now’s not the time to bring it up. Mark isn’t going to mention anything. Unlike Gary, Rob isn’t someone you need to get angry at. Rob isn’t someone you push into sharing his feelings. Helping Robbie Williams takes time and warmth and an awful lot of smiles, so that’s what Mark is going to give him, starting with food. Lots of it.

In the large, white kitchen on the ground floor, Mark turns to the shopping bags on the kitchen counter and starts unpacking them one by one. As per usual, he’s organised everything with meticulous care, with each bag more or less containing a different type of foodstuff or non-food item. One bag is filled entirely with toilet paper and bags of rice and pasta; a second bag is full of bread and cornflakes; and a third bag has been stuffed with cartons of milk and a single bottle of coke. A fourth, smaller bag contains only comfort food and a handful of non-gluten items. It’s pedantic, but it works for Mark.

Mark sees Rob peering into the bags. He’s wearing a simple black hoodie and sweatpants: not the prettiest outfit in the world, but comfortable enough. In comparison, Mark looks almost exaggeratingly smart in his tartan dress shirt and jeans.

‘I wasn’t sure what you needed, so I got you a bit of everything,’ Mark explains as he starts grabbing soft bread rolls and fresh croissants from the top of one shopping bag. ‘Do you eat croissants? I couldn’t remember. I got you some strawberry jam as well.’

Rob doesn’t really like croissants, but he’s too grateful to say no. He’s used to Mark running errands for him, but Mark’s truly exceeded himself today: there’s enough food here to feed an entire family. Twice.

Intrigued, Rob decides to inspect a blue shopping bag with a lot of cartons of milk and raspberry fruit smoothies. He also thinks he can see a large glass bottle hidden at the bottom of the bag, and he hopes it isn’t wine or beer.

‘You didn’t get me any lager or anythin’ like that, did you, mate?’

‘Thought it best not to,’ Mark says as he conjures up more bread, cereal and crackers from the biggest bag of the bunch. He neatly puts everything inside a small white cupboard without needing to ask Rob for permission. By now, Mark more or less knows where Rob keeps everything. ‘You haven’t been buyin’ any alcohol yourself, have you, Rob?’

This nearly makes Rob beam with pride. ‘I know I don’t look it, but I’m still sober, thank you! And me social anxiety is a lot worse than me alcoholism, anyway, so no.’

‘You haven’t been outside at all lately, then?’

Rob gives a shake of his head. ‘Not since I came here. I’ve not even been to me garden. It’s like there’s an invisible wall where the door’s supposed to be. You know what I mean? It’s probably better that way, though, I must look like a fucking mess.’

Anyone else would have asked Rob why he doesn’t just get up from his chair and leave his house, but not Mark Owen. He simply gives Rob a warm, understanding smile, and that’s that. Rob needn’t say more. It’s all right.

‘Still,’ Mark says, ‘At least you’ve been paintin’. That’s a good sign, innit?’

When Rob gives Mark a confused look, Mark nods his head at a small canvas that Rob propped up against the trash bin. It’s covered with a thick, chaotic smear of brown and green paint, making the canvas stand out from the pale whites of the kitchen. It looks like Rob gave up on it halfway through and then couldn’t get himself to throw it into the trash container outside.

‘It’s really nice. Did you do it this week?’

Rob stares at the painting like he’s only just seen it. He can’t remember working on it at all. ‘I . . . think so? It’s been a bit of a blur, to be honest.’

Rob’s had a lot of that lately, of just finding himself inside his living room or the kitchen without even remembering how he got there. It’s like he just goes through the motions of daily life without even consciously being aware of it. Sometimes Rob thinks it’s a sign that he’s going on a bit and that his memory isn’t what it used to be, but that wouldn’t explain why he can still remember certain moments as if they took place yesterday.

For some reason, Rob can still picture Gary’s naked body clearly. He can still feel Gary’s cock in his hand. He can still remember each and every song he wrote with the lads, even the ones they gave up on. It’s like his anxiety has given him this weird, overly selective memory that makes the clock speed up whenever it feels like it. His therapist tells him it’s just stress, but Rob isn’t so sure.

Then the memory of the painting hits him like a stone. One or two days ago, in a bad spell of sadness, Rob felt so restless and lost that he spent hours looking for something to do. Eventually, he settled on painting, an old hobby of his. He found a couple of damaged brushes, paint tubes and a canvas, and he painted the first thing that came to his mind: the outside world, morphed beyond recognition.

‘Now that you mention it, mate, I think I did the painting last night, actually. I can’t remember wanting to throw it away, though,’ Rob tells Mark, who looks very interested in the canvas indeed. ‘I must’ve hated it if I put it next to the trash. I wish I could put _myself_ there.’

‘It’s nice, though,’ Mark says, ignoring Rob’s negative quip about himself. He picks up the canvas from the floor and quietly inspects every inch. From this angle, the green blotches of acrylic that are meant to be trees look more like jealous monsters. ‘Very impressionistic.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘I think so,’ Mark says. He gives the painting one more appreciative look, then rests it on top of a small cupboard, away from the trash bin, before unpacking a second shopping bag filled with fruit and veg. ‘You should keep it, you know. Maybe put it on the wall.’

Rob doesn’t seem keen on the idea. ‘Dunno. Maybe I’ll just paint over it. Do a self-portrait or somethin’, with bags under me eyes. Or I could do a still-life of all the fucking fruit you got me.’ Rob continues helping Mark unpack and stops to hold up a weird-looking purple fruit or vegetable. He looks at it like he’s never seen one of those before. ‘What the fuck is this supposed to be?’

‘It’s an aubergine. Or an eggplant, in the US. It’s a fruit.’

‘You could have fooled me, Markie. It looks like a sex toy or somethin’. A _big_ sex toy.’

Mark snorts and takes the aubergine from Rob’s hands. He puts it into an empty bowl on the dining table and continues unpacking. ‘You’re gonna have to go out and buy one of those yourself, Rob.’

‘ _Prude_.’

‘ _Slag_.’

More fruit and vegetables appear. Rob recognises most of them, but the rest is completely foreign to him, like a small, golf-ball sized red fruit or a spiky orange _thing_ that looks like something out of _Doctor Who_.

‘What are those?’

‘Those are lychee. They’re very healthy, you know. They’re good for weight loss and important stuff like that.’

Rob gives Mark a pointed look. ‘Are you sayin’ I need to lose weight, Markie?’

Mark rolls his eyes.

‘Mark, I’m serious! Do you think I look fat?’

‘You look like you haven’t slept for a week . . .’ Mark trails off.

Rob points a finger at a spiky piece of fruit. ‘Can _that_ help me sleep?’

‘The kiwano? No, it just tastes like lemony cucumber.’

‘Why not buy me a cucumber, then? Oh, don’t look at me like _that_ , Markie, you know I haven’t cooked since I was sixteen! I didn’t even know what an avocado looked like until three weeks ago. Jay’s fucking fruit juices were the most fruit I’d had in me for _years_.’

Mark takes the kiwano and puts it next to the aubergine. The fruit bowl is fast becoming a colourful display of fruits from all over the world, complementing the sad, boring whites in the rest of the kitchen. They fill the room with warmth.

‘Good thing _you’re_ not cookin’, then, Rob,’ Mark says, which makes Rob feel a flush of guilt rush all over him.

‘ _Aw_ , mate. Don’t.’ Rob shoots an uncertain look at all the fruit and veg he didn’t even know existed until today. ‘Really, there’s no need. I’ll be fine on me own.’

That’s what Rob said the last time Mark was here too, so Mark stubbornly keeps unpacking. He knows what Rob’s like when he’s depressed and hungry, so he’s going to cook for Rob whether he likes it or not.

‘It won’t be anythin’ special,’ Mark tells Rob without stopping to unpack. He’s just conjured up four boxes of tea – including relaxing tea for a good night’s sleep. ‘I’ll just be makin’ a couple of meals you can keep in the freezer and pop into the microwave whenever you’re hungry. Like, gluten-free pasta and chilli and things like that. Simple things. Cos you _do_ know how to use the microwave, don’t you? Cos that might become an issue.’

Mark intended the latter as a jibe, but Rob still feels like he has to defend himself. ‘I’m not a _complete_ idiot, Markie. I just don’t know how to deal with all this real-life stuff. Whenever I’m on the road me food’s made by fucking two-star chefs, and whenever I’m at home I’m too much of a wreck to buy any of it meself.

‘And it’s not that I prefer it like that or anythin’, cos I don’t, Markie. I hate it. It’s just what happens when you join the music industry from the age of sixteen — you never learn important stuff like what a fucking eggbergine looks like.’

‘Aubergine.’

‘Whatever, mate. And anyway, how can I even know about these things when I get shit scared just walking into a supermarket? I’d rather throw meself into an active volcano and starve meself at the same time. I’d probably manage to find someone from the record label to do it for me so _I_ don’t have to.’

Mark makes a sad face to show he understands. ‘We never did do much growing up, did we? The only thing _I_ was ever really good at was dancing and having sex . . .’

‘I know,’ Rob sighs. ‘I never even learned how a coffee machine worked till I left the band the first-time round. I was suddenly on me own and I wanted coffee and I accidentally spilled coffee on me trousers and I nearly broke me mum’s washing machine tryin’ to get rid of the stain. No wonder I stayed with me mum until I was twenty-fucking-four. I’m a tragedy, mate.’

Mark can see that this bothers Rob, so he sneakily changes the subject by asking him where he keeps his aprons. Rob distractedly claims that he still has an apron in a cupboard in a room somewhere, and after a long search Rob comes back with an old ‘I love UFOs’ apron he once bought on a road trip. It makes Mark laugh hysterically, and all is well again.

***

At eleven, Mark starts prepping his dishes. Rob’s inexperience with food means he can’t help much, but he does put the kettle on every time Mark asks for tea. Rob likes watching, and Mark doesn’t mind that he does.

After only a few minutes, the kitchen starts filling itself with a hot pot of smells that breathe life back into the house. Bright ingredients cover the kitchen table. Tastes that Rob hasn’t tasted for years bring back memories to days spent eating abroad. It transforms the stark, white kitchen into a room that’s lively and colourful, and Rob feels better already. He feels warm inside whenever Mark smiles at him.

On the stove, there’s a sizzling sound as Mark throws diced-up vegetables into a pan that he greased up with butter. As per usual, he’s kept the kitchen meticulously tidy: only the pots and pans on the stove betray that he’s doing any cooking at all.

Rob doesn’t know how Mark does it, but then again Mark’s always been a bit of a neat freak. Even back in the nineties, Mark’s hotel room was usually the cleanliest. Whereas Howard and Rob would usually throw their clothes onto their foreign beds from a distance, Mark would always spend an extra minute folding everything up and making sure the ornaments were still in place after a bit of fun. It took him ages, and the band always ended up being late for promo because of it.

Back in Rob’s kitchen, Rob peers into a big pot next to a simmering pan on the stove. It smells delicious. ‘What’s that, Mark?’

‘Vegetarian curry.’ Mark scoops up a spoonful and hands Rob the spoon. ‘Here, try some.’

Rob does. Warmth fills his body the moment the food slides down his throat. His belly rumbles, and he asks Mark if he’s allowed to have another spoonful.

‘It’s _your_ food, Rob. Be my guest.’

The food helps. Rob tries a little bit of everything, and he ends up eating so much that Mark has to re-add courgettes and cauliflower into a big pot. Even though he’s slow, and not that good, Rob shyly offers to cut them up.

Over the next two hours, they keep cooking. More vegetables get added to the pot, and Rob asks Mark to recite their difficult, foreign names every time. He keeps learning. He gets faster and better at copping up mushrooms. He enjoys himself even when things become tricky, like when he has to peel an onion.

Rob’s cheeks turn a healthy pink whenever Mark smiles at him, and he very nearly forgets that he’s meant to feel sad. By now, they’re working on their third meal of the day.

Even Mark forgets to feel worried. As the hours pass, his reason for visiting Rob moves to the back of his mind. Right now, he’s enjoying himself so much that he doesn’t bother pelting Rob with questions about why he left and if he’ll ever come back again. After all, that sort of approach doesn’t work with Rob. Rob will bring it up himself, and at random, whenever he feels like he wants to.

That moment is now.

Rob stops slicing his tomatoes. He doesn’t know why, but he suddenly feels like there’s something he needs to clear up. It didn’t bother him before, but it kind of does now. ‘Mark, mate?’

‘Yeah, Rob?’

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’ Mark tastes a spoonful of pasta sauce. It’s carbonara sauce, with cream and lots of bacon. He reckons it needs a little something else, so he takes the onion rings Rob took care of earlier and plonks them into another pan to fry. Then he looks at Rob again. He gives him a reassuring smile. ‘You can ask me anything, remember? If there’s something I’m doin’ you don’t understand, just ask.’

Rob hesitates. As much as he has enjoyed learning more about cooking this morning, his question has nothing to do with cooking.

‘I’m not talkin’ about food, mate. I meant Take That. I wanna ask you somethin’ about the band. Somethin’ personal. I mean, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not. Whatever it is, you can ask me.’

Rob takes a deep, nervous breath. He doesn’t want to put Mark on the spot and turn an otherwise excellent morning into something awkward, but it nags at him that he doesn’t know how much Mark _knows_. Mark’s obviously aware that he left the band, but does he really know _why_?

'Did — did you and Gary talk about me at all? After I left the band, I mean. After I . . . texted you.’

Mark stops what he’s doing too. He gives Rob a long, questioning look, then answers the question. He figures this is probably a decent moment to talk about the band now that Rob looks a little happier. ‘We did mention it on the Monday after, yeah. I don’t think we even did anything that day cos we were so busy talkin’ to each other and trying to figure out what to do, I guess. We all really miss you, you know. All of us.’

This is comforting, but it’s not what Rob wants to hear. ‘But you know why I left, then?’ Rob can hardly say the words out loud. He feels too ashamed of leaving still. ‘Why I _really_ left?’

Mark swallows. He knew this question would come, but he didn’t think it would happen over a pan of carbonara and curry. He quietly continues to fry his onions without answering.

‘Mark? Do you know why I really left?’ Robbie presses. He seems adamant to know.

Mark sighs. He doesn’t know what to say. ‘I . . . may have made Gary tell me, yeah. The rest don’t know, I don’t think. Just me. I don’t even think James knows, and James usually knows everything . . .’

Rob turns rather pale. ‘So when you say _you know_. . .’ Perhaps Rob’s just misheard. Maybe Mark doesn’t know anything. ‘What exactly did Gary tell you?’

Now it’s Mark’s turn to blush. He swallows again. ‘Just that you two of you, you know, m-made love. And — and that he thought you were rather _good_. . .’

Rob considers this for a moment, then utters a sad, dejected ‘ _oh_ ’. He continues chopping up his mushrooms with a strange look on his face, and Mark doesn’t mention it ever again. 

***

As the sun rises to its highest position, Mark starts adding the finishing touches to the dish they’re having for lunch. First, he sprinkles his curry with a dash of seasoning. Next, he breaks naan bread in half and serves it on a plate next to a little bowl of chutney, chuffed that it looks like a proper dish. Finally, he carefully cleans the rims of his plates with a paper napkin and puts the dishes on the dining table where Rob’s already sat, happy and bright-eyed. He seems to have gotten over Mark knowing he fucked Gary already.  

Situated in a small, cosy dining room, the dining table overlooks the kitchen door and a stark white wall where Rob’s put his commemorative gold and platinum records. Whilst has more far records than Mark, none are as recent: _Rudebox_ is the only platinum record he’s managed to bag in the last three years, and he hasn’t bothered to check how much his latest album sold yet. Probably a lot more.

Mark hands Rob his utensils and sits down too. He sees Rob looking at the plate with childlike wonder, so Mark demonstratively clears his throat and starts reciting what he made in earnest. He feels like a contestant on _Celebrity Masterchef_.

‘Today, Mr. Williams, I’ve made for you vegetarian curry with aubergine, tomatoes and a coconut sauce. On the side, you have naan bread and chutney.’

Rob’s mouth waters just looking at the dish. He can’t remember seeing the naan bread before, though, as appetising as it looks: ‘Hang on, though, Mark, when did you have time to make naan bread? I know you’re good at this stuff, but not _that_ good.’

‘I know. I just got it from the supermarket.’

‘Well, that’s just lazy, Mark,’ Rob jokes, making Mark laugh out loud.

Over the past three hours, Mark must have made about four dishes in all: the most dishes Mark has ever made in a single day. He put most of them in the freezer, but the aubergine and tomato curry was too tempting to pass up. Served in one of Rob’s best plates, it looks like the most delicious thing Rob’s ever seen.

‘May I, Mark?’

‘Of course. I hope it tastes as good as it looks . . .’

It does. With each bite, Rob’s body gets recharged with warm, pleasant energy. He no longer feels frail and sick when he takes his second spoonful, and by the time he reaches his fourth he feels like his anxiety attacks never even happened. Sitting here eating with Mark, Rob’s possibly the happiest, healthiest person in the world.   

Something about the food and the dining table and the sun warming up his face makes Rob want to talk. He happily chats away about music and football and _X Factor_ with the radio on, and it’s the comfortable Rob’s been for days. If it wasn’t for his lingering memories of his night with Gary, he’d almost be tempted to write a song again.  

It’s been hard, though, writing. Anxiety makes it hard to find inspiration in the midst of all the fear, and whenever Rob does pick up his pen or flip open his laptop the only thing he can write about is Gaz. Nothing else. All Rob has to do is _think_ of writing a love song, and his stupid, depressed mind starts peppering him with thoughts about Gary.

Often, Gary is all he can think about. Even as he finishes his plate in his dining room, Rob’s still thinking about what Mark told him, about Gary thinking he was good. It keeps haunting him, like a ghost he wishes he’d never met. But more annoyingly, what Mark told him fills him with a thousand questions, like whether Gary enjoyed their first kiss as much as _he_ did.

But also: whether he should have stayed . . .

‘. . . Mark?’

‘Yeah, Rob?’

Rob starts playing with the little food that is left in front of him. Mark’s still eating. ‘I know this is a really weird question to ask over curry, but bear with me, all right — have you ever had a one-night stand? Like . . . recently?’

Mark tenses. ‘You’re right, that _is_ a weird question, Rob.’

‘Have you, though?’

Mark’s not sure how to answer that, so he briefly dabs his mouth with a napkin before pushing away his plate as though he’s lost his appetite. He has. ‘Why do you ask?’ he asks suspiciously.

‘Well, _theoretically_ , if you suddenly had a one-night stand with someone, what would you do? Like, afterwards. I’m . . . askin’ for a friend, if it helps?’

‘ _Oh_. Right.’ Mark relaxes a little. For a second he thought Robbie was insinuating something really awful. ‘I guess I’d worry about it after. Like, what if it was a mistake, that sort of thing. You know, what if she’s already taken and didn’t tell me? What if _I’m_ taken and I didn’t tell her? But I’d also feel proud, in a way. Especially if she was, _you know_ — beautiful. I guess at the end of the day we all just want someone to make us feel special and loved. Even if it’s only sex.’

‘How would you know if it _is_ love, though? Again, asking for a friend.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

This question is important to Rob, and it shows: his nervous hands start stabbing a leftover tomato with his fork while he his feet twitch underneath the table. He needs to know the answer. ‘Well, one-night stands are usually just about _sex_ , so what if, _theoretically_ , right, you had sex with someone and it felt like it was a lot more than just a good night? As in, you ended up having feelings for them. How would you know the difference?’

Mark considers this. He knows what love feels like, but it’s hard to put it into words. For him, love’s the certainty of having someone waiting for him when he gets home. It’s the childlike wonder he feels every time his partner smiles at him and squeezes his hand.

‘I guess you just do,’ Mark’s replies. ‘Like when you write a really good song and you can just _feel_ it’s gonna end up on the record. You’d know straight away.’

‘When exactly?’

‘Well, maybe not _during_ , but — but after, definitely. After you wake up. That’s when I think you’d know. When the birds are singin’ in the morning.’

It’s a beautiful answer, but it’s not what Rob needs. It’s like Rob has regressed back into the body of his eleven-year-old self, asking his mother about the meaning of love. Back then, love was nothing more than the childish crush on a classmate, but now it’s the difference between happiness and despair. He _needs_ to know.

‘What else would it feel like?’

‘Like butterflies, I guess. Like . . . wanting to stay. And I suppose if they make you feel good inside, you already love them, in a way. Love isn’t like sex in that it makes you wanna touch their body or, I don’t know, cuddle them and stuff like that, it makes you want to get to know them. It makes you want to be with them and share everything you have. Forever.’

Rob stops playing with his food. When he looks down at his plate to assess the damage, he sees that he’s managed to burst open several tomatoes with his fork. Their red, squishy insides cover the table, but Rob’s too lost in his own thoughts to clean it up.

Finally, he ‘gets’ it. He understands now.

The words roll out of him before he can stop them. Robbie doesn’t bother putting a filter on them; he speaks his thoughts as they are, utterly confused and complicated.

‘So then, what if you woke up next to someone, finally realising that you love them and you wanna be in a relationship with them, but you still ended up leaving? What if you were _so_ scared of bein’ loved by that person that you run away instead of tellin’ them how you feel? What would you do then, Mark? What would you do if you’d run away instead of loving someone? How would you ever be able to make that it right?’

Rob’s spoken so quickly and forcefully that he doesn’t notice a tear rolling down his cheek before it’s too late. He quickly rubs it off his face with the back of his hand and tries to compose himself even though he feels like he’s about to make the most exciting discovery of his life.

Mark touches his hand from across the dining table. He gives it a supportive squeeze and waits until he hears Rob release a nervous, shaky breath.

‘I think I’d just phone him up and tell him, Bob. All of it.’

‘But what if he won’t have me anymore? What if he’s given up on me? I know _I_ would.’

‘He hasn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

Mark gives Rob the warmest smile he can muster up and squeezes his hand again. ‘Gary’s a songwriter, Rob. He hates it when he has to leave a good love song unfinished.’

The words have a profound effect on Robbie. It’s only the second time they’ve mentioned Gary’s name that day, and hearing it sends a thrill through Robbie’s body. It warms him up and cools him down at the same time, and by the time Rob has decided how he really feels Mark has already gotten up to do the dishes, alone.

Dumbstruck, Rob stays behind in the dining room to take it all in. As though on cue, the bright afternoon sun floods the dining room with light, making even Rob’s old records on the wall glitter in the sunlight. They fill him with a sudden sense of pride and happiness, and something makes him get up and look at them.

Between frames of his first and most recent gold records, there’s still room for one more: one more record to sum up a single adventure. It’s like he knew he was going to re-join Take That from the moment he moved in here.

Looking at that empty space on the wall now, Rob finally realises what the past few months were all about. They weren’t about music or lyrics or shit live performances on ITV; they were about something else — one _concept_ , kick-started by a single look at Gary in a New York recording studio.

At last, Robbie realises that Gary didn’t ask him back to the band because of money or fame, but because it would be the saving of him. By asking Rob back, he saved Rob’s soul. He made Rob open up to a world that his anxiety had nearly destroyed.

Rob couldn’t see this back then, but he’s much happier now. His songs make sense again. Intrigued by the world, his eyes are brighter and bigger than they ever were. Over the past few months, the man Robbie Williams had become in the aftermath of his depression has completely disappeared, all because of Gaz.

‘Mark, mate?’ Rob directs his words at the kitchen, where Mark’s already started doing the dishes. The scent of lemony washing-up liquid fills the dining room.  

‘Yeah, mate?’

‘Can I just say something?’

There’s the sound of a tap being turned off before Mark pops his head from behind the kitchen door with a tea towel in his hands. ‘Sure, mate.’

Rob’s mouth spreads into a massive, million-pound grin. He feels giddy just thinking about it. In a single instant, his world goes from black-and-white to being a kaleidoscope of colours. Suddenly, he no longer regrets sleeping with Gaz. He now sees how important Gary has been to him.

‘I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, mate, but I think I’m in love with Gary fucking Barlow.’ The sweetness of the words makes Rob want to say it again. He looks like a child, experiencing his very first crush. ‘I’m deeply, irreversibly in love with him, and I . . . I don’t think I’ve ever been this sure about anything, mate. I feel butterflies just thinking about it! Here, feel me tummy.’

Mark chuckles. He leans his body against the doorframe, utterly chuffed. ‘I’m glad you finally realise, Bob. It took you long enough, you know.’

Rob’s face falls. _Took you long enough?_ ‘Hang on, Mark, you _knew_?’

‘You do have this doe-like look whenever you’re around him.’

‘Since _when_?’

‘Ages. 1993 or something.’

‘ _Nineteen-fucking-ninety-three_!’

Rob’s tummy does an unpleasant summersault. If someone had told him that fancying Gary Barlow was a possibility a little earlier, he would not be here, in L.A. He might not even be _depressed_ , just very happy and pleased indeed.

‘You could have told me a bit earlier, Mark, I left the band because of this! I broke someone’s heart!’

‘That’s true, but Gary will probably forgive you if you apologise nicely. Maybe kiss him, too. He likes that sort of thing.’

Rob chuckles. ‘I know, I’ve noticed . . .’

Mark wasn’t going to bring it up, but he brings it up anyway. ‘So you liked your night with him after all, then? Cos the texts you sent Gary said somethin’ else.’

‘Are you kidding, Mark? I fucking loved it, mate. Best one-night stand I’ve had for years. It’s not just that, though,’ Rob adds. ‘It’s like, being with Gary — it made me happier. I didn’t feel as bad. I still suffered from me anxiety and all that but he really helped me through it, if you know what I mean. It’s like he could read me mind and knew exactly what I needed from the start. I’ve never had that with anyone, and I’ve been with everyone.’

‘You should probably tell _him_ that.’

Rob tenses at the mention. He does want to see Gary again, but not a single amount of love and happiness is going to make stepping over the threshold any easier. Whilst his depression may have faded, his anxiety hasn’t. He’s still scared. He’s still bloody _terrified_ , and even the prospect of telling Gary that he loves him fills him with fear. There are easily a hundred things that could go wrong — or a thousand. Either Gary comes here and sees the state Rob’s in, or Rob goes back to London and gets lost inside the city streets that scare him so.

Worse still, what if Mark’s wrong? What if Gary hates him? What if he’s moved on and found someone else to be with?

Rob wouldn’t blame him. Not only did he leave in the middle of the night, he _hurt_ Gaz. He told him he was crap in bed and made Gary believe _he_ was the reason for Rob’s departure. He told Gary to leave him alone and never talk to him again, despite all the trouble Gary went through to make Rob happy. Anyone would have given up on him after that.

And who’s to say Gary even loves him back, anyway? He certainly never _mentioned_ loving him, or loving anyone at all. What if Gary’s just playing his own wicked part of the game?

‘Mark, when you say Gary will still have me . . .’

Rob’s not sure how to bring this up. He knows, logically, that Gary must like him back because they had sex, but his anxiety is making him question everything. All the signs that Gary loves him become blurred.

When Rob tries to picture the look in Gary’s eyes right before they fucked, he sees lust, not love. When he relives the feeling on Gary’s hands on his back, he feels like none of it was real. All throughout their shared, chequered history, the little signs that Gary Barlow ever liked him at all become untruths that he can no longer trust. Even the first kiss they shared becomes riddled with doubt.

How can he ever be sure that their love is real?

‘When you say that Gary will still have me, Mark, how do you even know? How can you tell? I mean, he does _like_ me, doesn’t he?’ Rob gives Mark an uncertain smile. ‘ _Right_? Or am I just seein’ things ‘ere?’

‘Oh, Rob.’ Mark breathes an exasperated sigh. ‘Of course he _likes_ you. You’re all he ever talks about, you know. He doesn’t even mention _Star Wars_ this much. It’s very exhausting sometimes.’

Rob stands straighter. He feels prouder, suddenly. ‘Really? Gary mentions me a lot?’

‘He didn’t just have sex with you cos he fancied something a lil’ _different_ , Rob. Haven’t you ever noticed how much he likes bein’ with you?’

Rob gives a sad shake of his head. He never noticed Gary loving him, but then again it _has_ only been two months that Rob has been looking at Gary at all. He’d be tempted to say that it all started when they saw each other naked in a New York locker room, but it’s been a lot longer than that.

Ever since the two of them had that amazing, therapeutic chat on a rooftop in Greenwich Village, Gary’s been kinder to Rob. He looks happier, now. _Sexier_. He no longer looks at Rob with hate or contempt, but with respect. _Love._

Then again — Gary always has. Rob was all Gary ever wanted, and Rob never knew. Not until now.

‘Now that you mention it, Gaz does always turn _really_ red whenever he sees me,’ Rob says, giddily remembering random bits of information that should have been a dead giveaway. ‘ _And_ he seems very keen to touch me every time we’re alone together. Like, puttin’ his hand on me back and all that. Not that I don’t like it, mind. I kinda do, if I’m honest. Have you ever looked at Gary’s hands, Mark? They’re very nice. You can tell he’s a pianist, if you know what I mean.’

Buzzing slightly, Rob takes a moment to picture all the things he and Gary have been doing over the past few months: the writing; the tea; the locker room; the phone call when Rob was in Berlin. Everything else he did is a blur (he can’t even recall some of the songs he wrote in New York), but Robbie can still remember every time Gary looked at him with those big, needy green eyes of his.

‘I think Gary must have fancied me since I got back to the band!’ Rob cluelessly tells Mark as much, and Mark laughs out a conspiratorial-sounding laugh that makes Rob reconsider what he knows.

‘Is there somethin’ I don’t know, Mark?’

‘Sorry, it’s just – it’s been a lot longer than that, you know. A _lot_ longer.’

‘Seriously? _How_ long? Like, a year or something?’ Rob’s mind’s eye brings back the memory of how badly Gary wanted him, and he smiles to himself as though he’s unlocked a very difficult puzzle. ‘It _must_ have been a year; Gary _was_ quite desperate when we got it on now that I think about it . . . Maybe he started fancyin’ me when we first met at that football match! _Did_ he, Mark?’

Mark laughs at Rob’s cluelessness. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. I don’t think _I_ should be the one to tell you how long Gary’s fancied you, though. You’re gonna have to ask _him_ that. Trust me. It’ll sound better comin’ from him.’ Then Mark makes a motion towards the kitchen, where the dirty dishes still await them. ‘Anyway, let’s finish the washing-up and catch up on X Factor, shall we? You _have_ watched this series, haven’t you?’

Rob never could resist the prospect of watching telly, so Rob puts Gary at the back of his mind for the time being and joins Mark in the kitchen. Rob doesn’t have a dishwasher (he’s never needed one), so Mark offers to dry the plates with a towel whilst Rob rinses the remaining cutlery with water.

They make a fairly good team, Mark and Rob: within a few minutes, the plates look like new again. The kitchen looks as clean as it did before Mark came here. In a way, doing the dishes feels a lot like having therapy. The entire day has been.

Of course, cleaning the dishes and realising that he likes Gary Barlow hasn’t magically cured Rob of his anxiety. He won’t suddenly be able to walk through the streets of L.A. with a spring in his step, happy and excited to be outdoors. Sadly, life doesn’t work that way: where there are people and challenges, there’s always anxiety. It’s not something that ceases to exist with the flick of a switch. No matter where he goes, Rob’s demons are always mere inches away.

But what _has_ disappeared, is Rob’s sadness. Miraculously, the sadness that he struggled with all week or month has gone. More than ever before, Rob feels excited about the upcoming weeks and months and all the other days he’s about to spend in the world. He wants to tell Gary how he feels and wake up next to him forevermore, like they were meant to be from the moment they met.

Rob can think of nothing else.

Fittingly, the hot L.A. sun finally reaches the kitchen windows the moment Rob thinks of Gary again. The sunlight fills the room with a beautiful golden glow, making the house look more like a home than it ever has.  

Rectangular shadows criss-cross over the tiled floor, framing them. The wet dishes gleam in the kitchen sink as the sunlight touches their curves. Even the garden outside the kitchen window suddenly looks exciting and tempting, and Rob can’t help himself.

He looks at the garden, then at his friend. The rest of the washing-up can wait. ‘D’you feel like goin’ outside, Mark?’  
  
  
SUNDAY – DECEMBER 2009 – LONDON

In sunbathed L.A., a lonely, fearful man finally learns to love the world again. Hand-in-hand with his best friend, he slowly revisits every shop, street, park, apartment, hill, and garden that once scared him. One day, he hopes to swap his cold, crystal palace for the bed his lover made.

In Manchester, a hopeless romantic fills his days with love, books, good food and dreams. He’s happy, but he questions his place in the world. Each and every day, he finds countless, irrational things that worry and scare him, but just as much beauty. More and more, the romantic finds beauty in things that aren’t just songs and lyrics. He finds happiness in things beyond the stage; a higher calling, as it were, or just a different path. One day, he’ll tread that path.

Closer to home, another man tinkers with a simple melody. He misses his daughters and his home, but most of all he misses his friends: his biggest reason for living. One day, he hopes to see his friends reunited by the very songs he writes.

In London, a different kind of man faces a battle of his own. He desperately wants to write and record, but something’s stopping him. He can’t concentrate, and hasn’t been able to for over a week. It’s like something’s nagging him still, but he doesn’t know what. There’s an invisible issue that scratches his skin and burns his throat, and the only reason he can think of is Robbie Williams.

Gary thought he’d gotten over Rob, but he hasn’t gotten over him all. If anything, his chat with Mark has given him hope again: a desperate, silly hope that he wishes he didn’t have because it’s easier being angry and hopeless.

When Gary was angry, he could drown himself in his work. He could lock himself inside a studio and work on just a single song till the sun disappeared from the sky and his heart was enveloped in darkness. He could pretend his behaviour was caused by his workaholic self wanting to finish the record, not by the heartbroken lover in him.

But since talking to Mark in London, Gary has felt a desperate, farfetched hope unlike any other.

‘I think your relationship with Rob is just about to begin, you know,’ Mark had told him.

‘Maybe if I talk to Rob about what happened, something good will come out of it.’

‘He could change his mind, Gary.’

‘Love doesn’t just happen, you make it _work_ , Mr. Barlow. Both sides.’

These childish claims had initially made Gary scoff, but hope works in strange ways. Once someone gets your hopes up, it’s hard to go back to being angry and sour. Unconsciously, Gary has hoped that Rob would phone him up ever since.

Rob hasn’t phoned Gary at all, though. Even now that it’s December, weeks after they had sex, Gary still hasn’t heard from him. Even Mark hasn’t been in touch.

Gary’s tried to write the worry away, but writing isn’t much of a help when you don’t know what to do with yourself. He feels restless and anxious for news, and the longer he has to wait the worse his restlessness becomes. It’s like he’s constantly on the verge of coming up with a brilliant lyric that he just can’t reach.

Whenever Gary isn’t busy staring at a blank piece of paper, he consults the internet for new, exciting pastimes to stop himself from going mad. He even asks Howard and Jay for suggestions one Monday morning, and they both suggest absolutely ridiculous activities, like reading a self-help book, walking, baking cakes or going down to the races. (Howard also suggests quite a few dirty pastimes that make Gary turn red.)

Eventually Gary decides to try out walking, but it isn’t a lot of fun, and it doesn’t help that nearly every street corner reminds him of Rob. Seeing the Royal Albert Hall during one of his morning walks brings back to mind the memory of Rob’s hands on his cock, and Gary quickly decides that walking probably wasn’t meant for him.

By now, Take That are in music limbo. They couldn’t agree whether they should keep the songs they wrote with Rob or not, so they’ve more or less gone on an extended hiatus to sort out their shit. A lot of kind, helpful texts from Jay, Howard and their manager reach Gary in the meantime, but none of them are from Rob. Not even Mark has texted him with an update.

Occasionally, Gary wonders if they shouldn’t just call it a day while they still can. He does still want to finish the record and go back on tour, but he can’t help but feel slightly uneasy about the whole thing. Whilst his initial anger over Rob’s departure has long faded, he still regrets the way he treated Howard, Jason, and Mark. He just stormed into SARM Studio like nothing had happened, like a heartless, broken fool.

Gary’s apologised to Howard and Jay ever since, but it’s painfully obvious that things aren’t the same without Rob in their midst. There’s an emptiness that even the best pop song in the world can’t change. Whether they like it or not, album six is a five-piece album. Anyone less won’t do.

Even as the outside world slowly starts preparing itself for the bright, glittery Christmas period, Gary’s feeling anything but festive. He tries writing in the brand new Moleskine that Howard got him last year, but it’s no good. The words that he wants to write won’t come out. They’re stuck there, like a big bloody writer’s block. Usually lyrics come to Gary as naturally as if he was speaking them, but lately the most he can conjure up in a single sitting is just the one sentence.    

Gary clearly isn’t going to make himself feel better by continuing to write, so he resumes his search for other things to clear his mind. He tries yoga, meditating, baking and painting with varying degrees of success, but he eventually settles for another attempt at walking. Two days in, walking turns into speed walking, and speed walking turns into jogging.

It’s just another restless attempt at a new pastime, but Gary enjoys it. No-one bothers him with his tight jogging kit on, and sometimes he moves so fast that the Kensington buildings are too blurred to trigger any memories. He does still think of Rob whenever he passes the beautiful Royal Albert Hall, but he no longer thinks of what he and Rob did that night. Right now, it’s been so long that he feels like the charity concert never even happened anyway.

***

Two weeks later, Gary still hasn’t heard from Robbie or Mark, making it hard to move on. He feels like he’s _supposed_ to be over Rob by now, but wherever there’s hope, there’s no hope for moving on. As long as Gary doesn’t know how Robbie feels, there’s still a slight chance that Robbie loves him after all.

In a way, things were a lot easier when Gary was convinced that Robbie hated him.

Still — Gary keeps going. He keeps _running_ , because he has to. It’s become a proper habit, and Gary can feel its benefits already. He feels happier. Fitter. His tummy isn’t as bloated as it used to be, and he even thinks his legs look a little nicer. If Rob doesn’t end up loving him after all, Gary will at least be able to boast about the body he’s missing out on.

Running has helped Gary creatively, too. Sometimes, a random piece of lyrics will pop into his head and force him to stop and grab his Dictaphone before the words fade to black. In the space of a week, he’s collected about seven sets of lyrics that way. Most of them are about Rob.

Lyrics have been popping up more and more often, forcing Gary to head back into the studio after all. Jay’s too reluctant to join him still (he still thinks the album isn’t theirs to write now that Rob isn’t there), but Howard’s occasionally been in touch with him. Together, they must have come up with about five songs: enough to fill an EP, with or without Rob. Privately, they’ve both marked the bits of songs they think Robbie should sing.

It’s towards the end of December when Gary’s creativity fully comes back. It’s 6:30 on a lonely Sunday. Fog covers the banks of London, and it’s so cold that the streets are still empty. Sweating slightly, Gary’s just run past a large cooperate hotel and reached a straight, narrow river bank. It’s foggy, but he can still see the dome of St. Paul’s in the distance. If he squints, he can just about make out a golden glint on top of the cathedral before a wisp of fog makes it disappear again.

It’s a gorgeous, poignant view, and Gary stops at a low, metal barrier to catch his breath and stretch his legs. In front of him, he can count every single stone and pebble on the river bank. At the other side of the river Thames, the expensive London apartments have turned into a grey, blurry silhouette. He can no longer see anything, just shapes.

Gary’s built up quite the sweat, and he feels good. Fit. He reckons he could easily go on for another half an hour, twice longer than yesterday, and he figures he might as well. After all, there’s very else he can do today. Apart from a writing session with Howard in the afternoon, his diary is free. He kept it all empty in case Robbie gets back in touch with him.

Gary doesn’t necessarily mind being here, though. He likes feeling the chill on his hands; the cold air as it reaches his face. It makes him feel strangely alive, and he almost wishes a journalist would photograph him in his tight jacket and jogging trousers. Perhaps if he’s lucky, the photos will reach Rob’s eyes and make him want to fuck him again.

(Alas, only one fellow jogger has woken up early enough to capture the view of the city in the fog. It’s almost as if the people of London have collectively decided to let Gary have this Sunday morning alone.)

Something about seeing the river Thames shrouded by fog makes Gary stick around a little longer. He watches the world pass him by in faint wisps of grey, and for the first time that month he doesn’t mind that he’s cold. He’s more of a summer person, Gary is, but this is fine. It’s nice. Once he gets home, he’ll make himself a nice cup of Earl Grey and crawl back into bed with a book.

Just as Gary intends to move towards a bridge on his right, his phone buzzes inside his pocket.

Gary completely ignores it. He just continues his way down the river, undisturbed. He wants to reach the other side of the river by the one-hour mark and not bother himself with stupid messages from his manager.

Twenty minutes later, Gary’s phone buzzes again. And again. It has broken his concentration, and he has no choice but to get out his phone. He doesn’t even get his hopes up; he just assumes Jonathan, asking him for an update he can’t provide because he hasn’t heard from Rob for a century. Or maybe it’s Howard, sending him a funny, dirty pic to cheer him up.

It’s Rob.

Gary has to read the name on his screen four times before it sinks in. He can’t believe it. Rob’s send him two texts and an e-mail, all in the space of twenty minutes.

As in, _Robbie Williams_ , the man he had sex with. The man who left him.

The man he’s loved for over a decade.

It’s fucking terrifying. Gary doesn’t know how to feel. He _wants_ to read Rob’s messages, but something’s stopping him. If the texts are lovely and warm, then he wants to save them till he gets home. If the texts are as cold as he feels, he wants to read them right now and forget they ever happened. He’d run a million more miles just to get over them.

Gary looks round him as though he’s looking for someone to ask for advice, but he’s all on his own. This is _his_ decision to make, and he hesitates for over ten minutes before he decides to read Rob’s texts after all, starting with the oldest one first. He nervously taps the message with his fingers, and his heart starts racing in his throat just seeing Rob’s familiar writing style:  
  
_— I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’VE NOTICED GAZ … BUT I’VE SENT YOU AN E-MAIL … PLS READ IT WHEN YOU HAVE THE TIME … I’M NOT EXPECTING A REPLY OR ANYTHING BUT IF YOU DO DECIDE TO GIVE ME A SECOND CHANCE I’LL BE HERE FOR YOU … NOT JUST IN LA BUT WHEREVER YOU WANT ME …_  
  
By the time Gary finishes reading Rob’s text, his body has started shaking. His phone trembles inside his hands. _A second chance_? _Not just in L.A._? What’s Rob saying? What does he _mean_?

Gary reads the text again, and he’s none the wiser. He can see the words in front of him and can _sort of_ understand what they’re saying, but he doesn’t know what Rob’s trying to convey. Is he saying that he’d like to sleep with Gary again? Is he suggesting that he’s coming back to England? Is he here _already_? Is this Rob’s way of taking the piss?

He has no idea. He reads the next text. It’s shorter, but just as vague:  
  
— _THAT LAST BIT SOUNDED A BIT SUGGESTIVE … THAT WASN’T MY INTENTION BELIEVE ME … UNLESS YOU WANT TO READ INTO IT LIKE THAT … THEN BY ALL MEANS DO_ …  
  
Gary’s suddenly trembling so much that he has to sit down on a nearby bench. These texts are — Gary doesn’t know what they are. He feels equally giddy and terrified: giddy because Robbie _texted_ him, terrified because he truly, genuinely doesn’t know what Robbie means.

Rob could hate him still. He could still be of the opinion that Gary was crap in bed. That’s what Rob told him the _last_ time he texted him, and Gary took it to heart. _You weren’t even that good anyway, Gaz. Better stick to writing about love, not making it._ This could be yet another way to break Gary’s heart: get his hopes up and then tear it all down with the click of a mouse.

Then again — Gary reads the text again. _That last bit sounded a bit suggestive. That wasn’t my intention, believe me. Unless you want to read into it like that, then by all means do_.

Just seeing it makes Gary’s heart flutter. It does sound a bit suggestive. _Promising_. Could Mark have been right about Robbie liking him after all? Loving him, even?

There’s one way to find out. Only Rob’s e-mail is left, from a little longer ago. He reckons it’ll either be extremely short or as long as a love song, and Gary doesn’t know what he’d like more. A short message would likely hurt less, but a long e-mail would at least give him closure. It would give him the wrong impression that they’ve tried talking it through, if there’s anything left to talk about at all. If he and Rob never end up being together, he’ll at least be able to move on knowing that they _tried._

Gary takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes for a second, concentrates, then touches open the e-mail that will change his life forever.  
  
  
_From: Robert Williams_

_To: Gary Barlow_

_Sent: Today, 07:11_

Subject: N/A  
  
  
GAZ,

_I’M NOT SAYING THIS TO MAKE MESELF SOUND IMPRESSIVE OR ANYTHING BUT THIS E-MAIL TOOK ME THREE HOURS TO WRITE … THAT’S THREE HOURS OF STARING AT ME CRACKED LAPTOP SCREEN AND ARRANGING LITTLE BITS OF WORDS AND SENTENCES TO MAKE THEM SOUND STRONGER THAN I FEEL …_

_EVEN AS I’M WRITING THESE WORDS I’M WONDERING IF I SHOULDN’T JUST PHONE YOU UP … HEAR YOUR VOICE AGAIN … BUT I DON’T THINK MY HEART COULD HANDLE IT … NOT BECAUSE I DON’T WANNA TALK TO YOU BUT BECAUSE ME ANXIETY FLARES UP WHENEVER I PICK UP THE PHONE … IT’S LIKE LEAVING TAKE THAT MADE ME LEAVE BEHIND THE PART OF ME THAT’S BRAVE AND STRONG … THE PART THAT YOU HELPED CREATE …_

_BESIDES,, I THINK I SOUND BETTER ON PAPER ANYWAY…_

_ANYWAY … I HAVE A LONG LIST OF THINGS I NEED TO TELL YOU BEFORE THE WORDS RUN OUT … LIKE HOW MUCH I REGRET LEAVING YOU … HOW MUCH I REGRET TELLING YOU YOU WERE CRAP IN BED WHEN YOU WEREN’T REALLY …_

_SOMETIMES I STILL THINK ABOUT WHAT IT FELT LIKE TO KISS YOUR MOUTH AND I’M BACK INSIDE YOUR STUDIO AGAIN … HOLDING YOU TIGHT AND WONDERING IF THIS IS THE BEST OR WORST THING I’VE EVER DONE …_

_I STILL DON’T KNOW BY THE WAY … I HAVE DAYS WHEN THE THOUGHT OF KISSING YOU FILLS ME WITH GUILT AND HATRED … AND DAYS WHEN I WANT TO DO NOTHING MORE THAN TO MAKE YOU COME AGAIN …_

_I REGRET NOT TAKING THE TIME TO TELL YOU HOW FUCKING DIZZY YOUR KISSES MADE ME … NOT TAKING THE TIME TO LOOK AT YOU AGAIN AND TELLING YOU HOW BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE … BUT WHAT I REGRET MOST OF ALL IS NOT REALISING SOONER … NOT REALISING HOW I FEEL ABOUT YOU …_

_I COULD WRITE A HUNDRED LOVE SONGS ABOUT IT … AND IT TURNS OUT I HAVE …_

_IT’S NOT SOMETHING I WOULD USUALLY ADMIT … I DON’T TAKE PLEASURE IN TALKING ABOUT ME FEELINGS … I THINK YOU KNOW THAT BY NOW … BUT I SPOKE TO MARK AND HE THINKS I SHOULD TELL YOU HOW I FEEL ABOUT YOU IN PERSON … EVEN THOUGH IT SCARES ME TO DEATH …_

_IN OTHER WORDS,, THIS E-MAIL IS ME SAYING THAT I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU AGAIN … I WANT TO TELL YOU WHY I LEFT THAT NIGHT AND WHY I REACTED THE WAY I DID … WHY I LEFT THE BAND … YOU PROBABLY THINK IT’S BECAUSE I HATE YOU BUT IT’S NOT … HATE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT … I REALISE THAT NOW …_

_DON’T GET ME WRONG,, I’M NOT EXPECTING YOU TO FORGIVE ME … OR TO LOOK ME IN THE EYE AGAIN … BUT I THINK HEARING MY SIDE OF THE STORY WILL HELP …_

_ANYWAY,, YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME … JUST TEXT ME … PHONE … FAX … SKYPE … I DON’T KNOW IF I’LL BE ABLE TO GIVE YOU THE ANSWERS YOU NEED BUT I PROMISE I’LL BE WORTH YOUR TIME ..._

_LOTS OF LOVE,,_

_ROB_

_PS. I KNOW THIS MIGHT SOUND WEIRD BUT ME AND MARK WATCHED THE VIDEO FOR FOREVER LOVE ON YOUTUBE THE OTHER DAY AND I NEVER TOLD YOU WHAT A FUCKING TUNE IT IS … MAYBE “TUNE” IS NOT THE RIGHT WORD BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN …_

_I CAN’T REMEMBER IF I EVER SAID SORRY FOR SAYING ALL THE THINGS I SAID ABOUT YOUR SOLO CAREER ... BUT IF I HAVEN’T THEN I HOPE THIS WILL DO …_

It’s the final bit that does it. Never mind Rob apologising or enjoying kissing him or wanting to see him again — it’s Robbie’s approval that hits Gary most. Rob hasn’t uttered a single word about Gary’s solo career since coming back, and now he’s praising _Forever Love_ , the one song Gary wrote about him.

It’s what Gary didn’t know he needed to hear. He’s overwhelmed with a delicious mixture of pride, happiness, arousal and gratitude, and he feels so giddy that he stops feeling the cold.

St. Paul’s Cathedral has become no more than a grey, blurry speck in the distance at the other side of the river, but he hardly notices. He doesn’t see the world changing in front of his very eyes. The only thing that really matters is _this_ , this confirmation that Robbie loves him.

He reads the e-mail again. He dissects every word, sentence and letter. No matter how hard his stupid, anxious, scared mind tries to spin it, the message stays the same: Robbie wants to see him again. He enjoyed kissing him and wants to do so again, perhaps even soon. Perhaps even tomorrow.

It isn’t quite a love letter, but it’s so painfully honest it might as well be:  
  
_I could write a hundred love songs about it, and it turns out I have . . .  
  
I have days when the thought of kissing you fills me with guilt and hatred … and days when I want to do nothing more than make you come again …  
  
Sometimes I still think about what it felt like to kiss your mouth and I’m back inside your studio again … holding you tight and wondering if this is the best or worst thing I’ve ever done …  
  
_(This bit in particular makes Gary feel quite warm inside, and he reads it over and over again, like a naughty little sentence in a novel that takes you by surprise. He wishes Rob were here now so he could tell him that their night together was not the worst part of anything, but the best. It was the best night Gary had had for _years_.)  
  
_I regret not taking the time to tell you how fucking dizzy your kisses made me … not taking the time to look at you again and telling you how beautiful you are … But what I regret most of all is not realising sooner … not realising how I feel about you …_  
  
What else could that sentence be but an admission of love? It’s a confirmation, this is. It’s Robbie telling Gary that he’s madly in love with him. He doesn’t know how Rob found out, or when, but Gary’s very glad it happened indeed, and not a moment too soon.

Gary continues grinning at his phone. A fellow jogger runs past him and gives him a long, odd stare, but not because Gary’s famous: he stares at Gary because he _radiates_. There’s hope still, and this time it isn’t far-fetched. This time, it isn’t hopeless.

_Robbie Williams loves him back_.

Gary huffs a deep, dreamy sigh. He considers letting Robbie wait for a couple of days, but he doesn’t play the game like that. He’s too excited and gentlemanly to ever be a tease.  
  
  
From: Gary Barlow

_To: Robert Williams_

_Sent: Today, 07:33_

Subject: N/A  
  
  
Dear Rob,

_I was going to pretend not to be happy that you got in touch with me again, but I’m bloody thrilled, mate. Did Marko put you up to this?_

_There’s a lot that I’d like to tell you too, but I agree it’s probably better if we speak in person rather than sending each other e-mails back and forth. Might wanna be careful meeting in public, though, some people might notice and call the press . . . (Remember how people responded when we were at that football match together last year? I thought those journos would never leave us alone they were so desperate for a chat !)_

_How would next Sunday work out for you? My place, maybe?_

_Gary_

_PS. I don’t think I need to tell you this, but that comment about Forever Love means a lot to me. I’m really glad you like it._

 

It’s a desperate, overzealous response, but Gary’s beyond caring. He giddily waits for Rob’s reply in the cold, and ten minutes later his phone buzzes again. Clearly, Rob doesn’t feel like teasing either.  
  
  
_From: Robert Williams _

_To: Gary Barlow_

_Sent: Today , 07:43_

Subject: N/A  
  
  
GAZ,

_NEXT SUNDAY SOUNDS GOOD … MAYBE NOT DO IT AT YOUR PLACE THOUGH … AS MUCH AS I ENJOYED BEING THERE LAST TIME …_

_THEN AGAIN,, I SUPPOSE WE COULD ALWAYS GO BACK THERE LATER IF WE FEEL LIKE IT …_

_I KNOW YOU DON’T WANT TO MEET UP IN PUBLIC BUT HOW ABOUT WE MEET UP AT THE RESTAURANT MARK AND HOWARD WERE TALKING ABOUT LAST MONTH ? IT’S VERY EXPENSIVE AND THAT BUT THE FOOD IS GOOD OR SO I’M TOLD BY MARK OWEN HIMSELF … HE’S SAT NEXT TO ME TO MAKE SURE I DON’T SAY SOMETHING STUPID OR EFF UP MY SPELLING …_

_ANYWAY,, HE SAYS IT’S A GOOD PLACE FOR DINING “IN PRIVATE” IF THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT … I KNOW I DO … MIND YOU I HAVEN’T EATEN OUT FOR OVER THREE YEARS,, SO I MIGHT BE A LITTLE RUSTY AND FORGET WHAT A FORK LOOKS LIKE …_

_MUCH LOVE,,_

_ROB  
  
  
_ As with the previous message, Gary has to read it twice more before the words kick in. There’s something deliciously coquettish in the way that Rob wrote ‘We could always go back later if we feel like it’, and it makes him feels prouder. _Wanted_. If Mark hadn’t been sitting next to Rob in L.A., Rob would probably have been a lot cockier than that. They might even have flirted.

Gary can only vaguely remember the restaurant Mark and Howard talked about, though, so he quickly googles its name before typing a reply. By now, his fingers and knuckles have gone red from the cold. More people have arrived at the river, tourists and joggers alike, but the only thing Gary is interested in is the pictures in front of him, of a restaurant where Rob and Gary will have their very first date.

( _Is_ it a date? Gary wonders. He’s not sure. A ‘date’ would suggest that there’s going to be a lot of cuddling and kissing, so a lot more than just telling each other why they did what they did last month. It could be a _step towards_ their very first date, though. Like a pre-date. A mini date. So, basically, they’re going on a date.)

The London restaurant looks nice enough, for something Mark chose. It’s modern and vegan, but discreet and very expensive indeed. They’ll be safe from fans and journalists there, if being safe is what they need to speak their minds. In other words, it’s perfect.

As with the previous e-mail, Gary doesn’t bother hiding his excitement. Doing so would be petty and childish, so the tone in Gary’s e-mail is happy and confident instead. By now, the fog has taken its leave from the streets of Kensington, beginning with the empty banks below. One by one, more pieces of London reappear in front of its waking inhabitants: first the pebbles on the bank, then the river, then the apartments in the background, blurry still. If it’s a metaphor for the clouds lifting from Gary’s mind, then it’s suitably beautiful.  
  
  
From: Gary Barlow

_To: Robert Williams_

_Sent: Today, 07:57_

Subject: N/A  
  
Rob,

_Sounds great, mate. Is Mark taking care of you over there? Thank him for me, would you?_

_Shall we meet up at seven, then? Next Friday. I’ll take care of everything. (If that’s all right with you, by the way. I don’t want you to think you have to arrange everything because . . . you know. I’ll do it. I’ll probably be able to get us a good table if Mark’s been there before.)_

_Gary_  
  
  
The moment Gary hits send, the morning sun breaks through the clouds. Only a thin layer of fog remains over the river bank, like dried ice on a concert stage. Sunlight warms up Gary’s cold, red hands. More tourists and Londoners arrive, leaving him be. It’s the most poignant morning Gary has had for years, and he privately reminds himself to thank Mark for setting it all up later.

Rob’s reply arrives only minutes later. It’s short but sweet, for something Rob wrote, but it does the job.  
  
  
_From: Robert Williams _

_To: Gary Barlow_

_Sent: Today, 08:03_

Subject: N/A  
  
GAZ,,

_IF YOU COULD ARRANGE EVERYTHING THAT WOULD BE GREAT MATE … I’D LOVE TO DO IT MESELF BUT LIKE I SAID I’M NO GOOD ON THE PHONE … NOT WHEN IT’S TO A COMPLETE STRANGER ANYAY … I TEND TO GET ME WORDS ALL MIXED UP,, AND I DON’T WANT TO END UP BOOKING FOUR TABLES INSTEAD OF JUST THE ONE …_

_BUT YEAH SUNDAY AT SEVEN OCLOCK SOUNDS GOOD … CAN’T PROMISE I’LL BE THERE ON TIME BUT I’LL BE THERE …_

_LOTS OF LOVE,,_

_ROB_

_P.S. MARK TELLS ME THAT THE RESTAURANT HAS PRIVATE BOOTHS OR SOMETHING … I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS BUT I THINK HE WANTS YOU TO BOOK ONE OF THOSE FOR SOME REASON…_

_P.P.S. PLEASE WEAR SOMETHING NICE ?_  
  
  
The message is an amazing conclusion to an already wonderful chain of e-mails, and Gary has to read it over and over again.

Mark had always been convinced that Rob liked Gary and that they were made for each other and that they’d end up going on a lot of dates and maybe get married if fate allowed it, but Gary never believed it. He didn’t dare to. But now that Gary finally has confirmation, right here, in the palm of his hand, he can think of nothing else. Robbie … likes him. He wants to see him. _Talk_ to him. Robbie wants to get him alone in a restaurant. He wants Gary to wear something nice, for reasons. Probably good reasons.

All Gary needs to do now, is show up on the date and tell Robbie how he feels. That’s it. Fate has already done the rest: now, the boys just need to finish what Mark always believed they were both capable of.  



	4. Patient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awkward first dates! More fluff! More smut! A wild dog appears. Rob has an anxiety attack and Gary is the best boyfriend (?) ever.

SUNDAY – DECEMBER 2009 – LONDON

Gary’s tried on seven outfits. He’s tried: a simple t-shirt and jeans; a suit and tie; a waistcoat; a cheaper version of a suit; his jogging trousers; another T-shirt and jeans; and, finally, a trimming black sweater that makes him look skinnier than ever.

None of the outfits have impressed him much. Sure, he looks great in all of them, but he wants to give Rob the impression that he’s made _just_ the right amount of effort. He doesn’t want Rob to think he’s been stood in front of his walk-in closet for an hour! (It’s actually been two.)

Howard hasn’t been that much of a help either. He’s been with Gary all afternoon to give him moral support and unsolicited sex tips, but he’s not said much about the outfits other than an occasional questioning ‘ _hm_.’ He means it well, Howard does, but it’s not exactly reassuring that he’s disliked every single outfit Gary’s shown him.

Regardless, Gary’s determined to put on an outfit that gets the Howard Donald Seal of Approval. At four in the afternoon, he decides to show Howard outfit number eleven: a black suit he might be tempted to wear as an X Factor judge one day. It’s nice enough, but it makes him look terribly serious, like he’s mourning something that hasn’t yet happened.

‘I don’t like it,’ Howard tells Gary as much, and Gary sullenly retreats into his walk-in closet.

Gary tries on outfit number twelve whilst Howard lazily checks his cell phone in Gary’s bedroom. He may have criticised every single outfit Gary’s shown him, but Howard’s been terribly supportive: the first thing he did when Gary told him the good news two days ago was give him a hug, congratulate him and immediately remind Gaz of the importance of consent, safe sex and foreplay. Thankfully, Howard brought it so humorously that Gary didn’t mind.

Back in Kensington, Gary’s just left his walk-in closet in a rather tight dress shirt and matching black jeans. He’s rolled up his sleeves to show off sun-kissed arms, and he almost looks muscular in a “cute teddy bear” kind of way. He wore something very similar to it on the _X Factor_ last year, when they were doing promo for _Greatest Day._

Howard gives the outfit a quick once-over.

‘Better,’ he says, before returning his gaze to the phone in his hands and answering a dirty text from a lover. He laughs at what he just sent, then looks up again. ‘Would be even better with a tie, though.’

Gary glances at his own chest. Rather conservatively, he’s buttoned up his shirt all the way up to his neck. ‘Why? I like it without a tie.’

‘Not for the type of restaurant _you_ two are going. Besides,’ Howard grins, ‘you can ask Rob to take it off of you later.’

Gary turns scarlet. ‘I don’t – I haven’t – I don’t want to do _that_ , Howard! The fact that me and Rob had sex is what got us into this mess in the first place!’

‘ _Sure_ , Gaz. Is that why you’ve left your fly undone, then?’

Gary looks down.

‘ _Christ, Howard._ ’

Horrified, Gary stumbles back into his walk-in closet to get changed again, as if wearing something completely different will be proof that Gary has definitely not been thinking about Rob helping him take off anything. Sure, Rob’s e-mails were quite flirty and coquettish and maybe even sexual, but Gary hasn’t been thinking about their date at all that way. They’re just going to talk. That’s it. Nothing more. This time, Gary isn’t going to lean in and kiss Rob no matter how badly he wants it.

Alas: once Howard leaves, Gary restlessly decides to put the black outfit back on again.

Including a tie.

***

At work, Gary’s cool and collected. He concentrates. He works hard. He doesn’t think _that_ highly of himself, but he thinks he’s good enough to get the work done. Without him there, the band would probably never finish anything. It would cease to exist underneath a pile of mismatching ideas. Thanks to Gary Barlow, Take That records get released right when the record label needs them to. They have everything under control because _he’s_ there to make sure of it.  

Perhaps, indeed, that’s why Robbie Williams suits Gary so well. Rob is the epitome of unpredictability; life’s ups and downs, all contained into a single breathing person. He’s the non-sequitur during a serious conversation and the rainfall on a summer’s day. Together, the two of them will have the sort of relationship not even a hopeless romantic could ever dream of.

Regardless, the prospect of great romance and awesome compatibility doesn’t stop Gary from being nervous. It doesn’t stop him from _worrying_. In fact, he’s probably never been this nervous, ever. He’s performed in front of tens of thousands of people and not felt a single nervous prickle inside his body, but now that he’s about to see Rob again he feels like he’s about to lose his virginity all over again.   

Re-reading Rob’s messages doesn’t help. All it does is remind Gary of what’s at stake here. If their date is successful then it will obviously be the best thing to have ever happened to him, but if it goes wrong then _everything_ will suffer. Not only will he lose his shot at love, five-piece Take That will probably never reform again either. It’s a heavy burden to bear, and it’ll either crush or empower him, pushing him to make this the best date he’s ever had.

And he _would_ , if he could, but that’s the thing: Gary has no idea what a good date actually _looks_ like. He hasn’t been on one for years. He’s had relationships, sure, but dates have been few and far between. He doesn’t know whether there will be kissing or cuddling or whether they’ll just wordlessly stare at each other. He doesn’t know whether to take Rob home after or leave it at that. He can’t predict if they’ll touch and have sex or keep their hands to themselves. Gary doesn’t even know if he _wants_ them to.

One thing he does know: this could still go terribly wrong after all.  

***

It’s twenty to seven. James, Gary’s driver, security guard and confidant, stops the car in front of the restaurant Mark chose. Gary’s felt more confident staring into the corridors at Wembley stadium before a concert, and he eyes the building as though its sleek, inviting doors might swallow him whole.

Gary looks at James, who’s been waiting for him to say something.

‘Could you take a small detour, please, James?’ His anxious eyes flick at the clock on the radio. ‘We’ve arrived a bit early.’

‘Nervous, Sir?’

Gary nods, and he needn’t say more. They slowly drive away from the parking spot again, with the restaurant becoming smaller and smaller in James’s rear-view mirror until it disappears behind a large line of trees. It makes Gary feel relief wash over him, but he doesn’t feel better; he knows he’s going to have to return to the restaurant eventually.

To buy time, James pointlessly drives the car past random London landmarks that no longer look that impressive. Gary tries to find beauty in them, and he supposes he does, in a way, but all he can see is _couples,_ not famous English attractions. He sees couples with London guidebooks and cameras. Londoners, holding hands. Foreign strangers taking romantic selfies in front of the Big Ben. A married couple, kissing as the car drives past. And then on all the billboards in the city, countless ads for dating sites. Pictures of straight couples kissing on the flashing screens overhead. A poster for a saccharine rom-com on Piccadilly Circus.

It’s like they’re taunting him: _have a look at what you could be. Look at what you’re about to lose._

James can see Gary looking troubled in his rear-view mirror. ‘Feeling better, Sir?’

James has known Gary for so long that Gary can no longer get away with lying.

‘Not at all,’ Gary scoffs. ‘I feel bloody awful. It’s not just me nerves, though, James — I’m just really distracted by how many bloody couples I see out there today. It’s like I’ve never noticed how many couples there are before, and I’m supposed to write love songs for a living!’

James stops at a red light to let a group of tourists pass. All carrying the same blue backpack, they’re following a tall woman carrying a bright red umbrella like sheep following their shepherd. The woman must be a tour guide, but not a very good one: much farther back, a small cluster of tourists with the same blue backpacks are still on the other side of the street, looking lost. Mark would probably have stepped out of the car to help them get back in touch with their tour guide, but Gary just sighs when he sees another couple walk past their car.

‘Does that bother you, Sir?’ James asks. ‘The couples, I mean, Sir.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos if tonight doesn’t work out then I’m gonna keep seeing all these couples and constantly wish I was them. It’ll drive me up the bloody wall, that will . . . And I know that tonight probably _will_ work out cos I’ve read what Rob sent me, but you just never know, do you?’

James just hums. Being a security guard, he doesn’t think he ought to voice his opinion.

‘I could kinda do with your advice here, James,’ Gary kindly presses him, asking him to do just that.

‘I’m not sure if that’s in my job description, Mr. Barlow,’ James points out matter-of-factly.

‘I’m asking as a friend, James. You know I value your opinion more than most.’

James’s eyes briefly flick at Gary in the rear-view mirror. ‘My honest opinion? I think you’re looking at it all wrong, Sir. These couples, I mean. You think it’s a bad thing, but it doesn’t have to be. I think the only reason you notice them is because you’re now one half of a couple yourself. The world looks different that way.’

‘I’m not one half of a _couple_ , James,’ Gary points out.

‘I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree on that point, Sir. You’re going on a date with Mr. Williams, aren’t you, Sir? You two have known each other since you were teenagers. You’ve been intimate. You’ve kissed. I’m not an expert, but that sounds like a lot like a couple to me. Not to mention the fact that I’ve never seen you this happy, Sir. You look different every time you talk about him. Better.’

Gary opens his mouth to argue this, then closes it again when James gives him a knowing, conspiratorial look in the rear-view mirror.

Perhaps James is right; perhaps he and Rob _are_ together already. Maybe not in the technical sense, but spiritually, at least. In some weird, distorted way, the universe has decided to weave them together already.

‘Okay, maybe I _am_ one half of a couple,’ Gary acquiesces. ‘But I’m still havin’ you on stand-by in case I get stood up, James,’ he adds in jest.

‘And what if you don’t, Sir?’ The traffic light turns green, and James quietly takes a right turn, back towards the street the restaurant is in. ‘What if Mr. Williams shows up anyway and you end up having a very good time together?’

Gary thinks about it. His mind has come up with a million different ways of Rob breaking his heart a second time, but a million more ways of Rob showing up and loving him. In all of these daydreams, Gary ends up taking Rob home every single time.

‘Have you got anything planned for the next couple of days, James?’

‘That all depends on you, Sir. You know I’ll be wherever you need me to be.’

Gary says nothing for a while. He just stares as the city passes him by. Suddenly, London and its couples don’t look so daunting after all, just complicatedly beautiful.

‘Would you mind if I gave you the next two days off if me and Rob clicked after all, James?’

James chuckles. He gives Gary an appreciative look in the rear-view mirror. ‘I thought you’d never ask, Sir.’

***

James drops Gary off at the restaurant five minutes later. Within seconds of arriving, he’s already claimed the best table in the house. Less fortunate souls are still having to queue outside, but none of them are Rob. Rob isn’t there yet. This is both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because it means Gary has no rational reason to be nervous yet, and a curse because it means Gary has every reason to be worried. After all, he _is_ dating Robbie Williams, the world’s most unpredictable man. This means that his date could arrive at the restaurant anywhere between now and ten o’clock.

As per Mark’s request, Gary reserved one of the restaurant’s private booths. In it, there’s a single table and a small U-shaped bench that looks like it was deliberately designed so that its occupants would be sitting extremely closely together. Outside the booth, there are two red curtains that can be closed to offer its guests more privacy. Clearly, Mark chose this restaurant so that Rob and Gary would end up canoodling.

Regardless, it’s still a respectable establishment. More a modern take on a dining room than an old-fashioned restaurant, the place is almost entirely red. In the middle, there are expensive black tables underneath a sky of crystal chandeliers, and every single wall is lined with a slick series of red-curtained private booths. (Gary’s in the one on the far left, more or less away from prying eyes but for a few as of yet empty tables.) The staff is dressed in smart black uniforms, and almost every guest looks equally well-dressed. For all intents and purposes, this is a place where you come to show off.

At five past seven, all the curtains of the private booths are still open. Over half of the tables are already occupied, with dozens of people still queuing outside the restaurant’s doors. Occasionally, one of the waitresses comes round to check on Gary and offer some wine. Each time, Gary tamely orders a single bottle of water instead.

Ten past seven. Rob still hasn’t arrived, but Gary already feels like he’s only one bad moment away from fucking it all up. A wrong word. A spillage of wine. An ill-judged comment about the sex they had. He knows that he didn’t have a say in Rob’s departure and that he’s not to blame for what happened and that he can, therefore, go into this meeting guilt- and fear-free, but _still_. Still.

A quarter past seven. Away from curious onlookers, Gary checks his phone to see if Rob’s texted him. Rob hasn’t: the last texts Rob sent him were the angry ones from over a month ago ( _PLEASE STOP TEXTING ME_ , etc). Gary swiftly deletes them from his inbox and pretends they never happened. 

Five minutes later, Gary downs his third glass of water of the evening. He desperately needs to go to the toilet, but Murphy’s Law dictates that Rob will arrive the moment Gary leaves, so he stays rooted to the spot. He’s not going anywhere. He stops drinking anything.

Half past seven. Worry is beginning to kick in. Gary’s private booth is at the far end of the dining room, so the only thing he can see is two empty tables and the occasional waiter. He wouldn’t be able to stare at the entrance even if he wanted to.

At 7:35, the thought that he’s been stood up after all briefly crosses Gary’s mind. He tries to tell himself it’s a ridiculous notion. ‘Don’t be awful,’ Mark would say. ‘Rob will be here. He loves you, after all.’ Mark’s probably right about that.

At twenty to eight, Gary starts to question his outfit again. It’s sexy, but it’s tight. The tie doesn’t really match the colour of his shirt, and it’s stifling his throat.

8:50. Gary tries to write a brand new love song on his smartphone, but autocorrect keeps changing ‘lock’ into ‘cock’, so he gives up halfway through. It probably wouldn’t have been very good anyway.

Five to eight. At last, Gary understands why Howard suggested he put on a tie.

Eight o’clock. Rob’s officially an hour late. For pop star standards he’s still relatively early, but this is not an after-party in L.A. or New York: this is a _date_. This is important. If Rob doesn’t show up after all, then . . . _oh_ , Gary doesn’t even know _what_ he’d do. Have a big cry, maybe. Call Mark. Write, for hours on end. But he’d most certainly go home and take off his dress shirt.

Five past eight. Gary’s starting to feel more annoyed than anxious, and he checks his phone again. There are no new messages from Rob, just a couple of cheeky texts from Howard reminding him to bring condoms this time. There’s also a cute message from Mark asking him how things are going, with a bunch of added smileys. Gary doesn’t reply.

Time passes by slowly. The world keeps spinning. In the distance, Gary can see an obscured stranger carrying a gorgeous bouquet that’s about three feet in height, and it’s a painful reminder of what Gary wants to have but can’t. He can’t even see the guy’s face, the bouquet is so big!

Impatient, Gary gets out his phone again. He moves his fingers in such a quick, desperate text message that he doesn’t bother to watch what’s happening all around him. He starts and nearly drops his phone when he suddenly sees the stranger with the supersized bouquet standing outside his booth.

Gary doesn’t recognise the stranger. ‘Can I help you, mate?’

The stranger doesn’t say anything. He just lowers his arms and offers Gary the bouquet, and Gary feels a pang of warmth and relief when he finally realises he’s looking at Rob.

Every smattering of worry leaves Gary’s body. Rob’s finally here, for him. In a restaurant. They’re on a date in a restaurant. They’re together at last.

It’s almost as if Rob’s series of confusing, hateful e-mails never even happened. Even the one-hour wait feels like it happened in a dream. The only thing that matters is Rob looking at Gary like he’s both the most beautiful and terrifying thing he’s ever seen.

‘I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked, Gaz, so I got you one of each.’ Rob looks at the bouquet that Gary sheepishly accepts. He’s just _shoved_ them into Gary’s hands, too nervous to remember to offer a polite hello. He doesn’t even point out the gift tag. ‘I hope you’re not allergic to flowers or somethin’, Gaz, that would be terrible. And _hilarious_. But mostly terrible. I don’t even know how most of them are called . . .’

Gary doesn’t know what to say. Alternating his gaze between the bouquet in his hands and his terrified former bandmate in front of him, Gary looks quite as if he’s seen the universe expand in front of his very eyes. This is everything he’s ever wanted, but not in the way he was expecting to get it.

‘They’re _lovely_ , Rob,’ Gary eventually manages to blurt out. He struggles to give the bouquet a place (and keep them upright — they’re very heavy, these flowers!), but thankfully one of the waitresses quickly comes to his rescue.

‘I can put flowers in vase for you, Sir?’ she offers in a foreign accent, nodding at the bouquet as if might be some sort of explosive device. ‘We do not want stains on carpet.’

Gary gives the bouquet in his hands one more look. The stems of the flowers are dripping slightly, and some of the water has ended up on Gary’s black trousers.

‘Sure — yeah — _erm_ , a vase would be brilliant . . .’ Gary stammers, awkwardly handing the waitress the bouquet whilst giving his trousers a worried glance. The waitress disappears within seconds, but not without almost having her eye poked out by the bouquet’s gift tag.

With the flowers out of the way, Gary can finally get up from the sofa and give Rob a big, nervous hug. Rob wrongly assumes that Gary wants to kiss him, and Rob ends up planting an awkward, misplaced kiss on Gary’s temple that should have ended up on his lips instead. They awkwardly stand there half-hugging each other for longer than strictly necessary before ending the hug with awkward pats on the back.

Red-faced, the men take a seat next to each other on the red velvet sofa. Nervous, Rob manages to drop his phone on the floor. In the process of picking it back up, he accidentally ends up bumping his head against the table with a loud _clunk_.

It’s not until the foreign waitress returns with their bouquet and apologises for the table getting in the way of Robbie’s head that the boys can truly look at each other. Sparks fly.

‘It’s really good to see you, Rob. Really good,’ Gary blurts out.

‘I’m so sorry I was late, Gaz. I’m a mess,’ Rob says at the same time.

They laugh at the fact that they spoke at the same time. From the outside, they look like two young boys on their first ever date, terrified and flustered in equal measure.  

‘Sorry,’ says Gary, nervously so. He can’t keep his eyes off Rob. He can’t believe Rob’s finally here and that they’re together and that Rob’s smiling and that he isn’t going anywhere. ‘You go first.’

Rob hesitates for a second, then speaks. He briefly massages the back of his head where the table attacked him. ‘I just wanted to say sorry for being so late,’ Rob says. He’s wearing a trimmed dark suit with a white dress shirt underneath, and it makes him look like the handsome manager of a successful football club. ‘I do wanna be here, Gaz. Genuinely. And not just cos I’m fuckin’ starvin’.’

‘I know you do.’ Gary takes one of the empty glasses the waitress left for him on the table earlier and fills it with water. When he hands it to Rob, he makes a very deliberate attempt at touching Rob’s fingers in the process. ‘I don’t mind that you’re late at all. Really. I even got round to writin’ a song and everything.’

Rob takes a big sip of the water Gary offered. ‘So you’re not angry then? You don’t think I’m a really big knob for being late?’

‘I’m just glad you’re here. _Really_ glad.’ Gary looks at the bouquet of flowers in front of him. He hasn’t bothered reading the gift tag yet. ‘And the flowers are a nice touch.’

‘Jay’s idea,’ Rob explains, as though he doesn’t think he should take the credit.

‘Either way, they’re beautiful, Rob. Thank you.’

Then Gary gives Rob a warm, appreciative smile, and all is well. The awkwardness fades. Even their shared history momentarily becomes a secondary character of the love story they’re in.

Rob seems to recall that Gary wanted to say something earlier. ‘So what is it _you_ wanted to say, then, Gaz? The bit I talked over.’

‘Just what I told you before,’ Gary says. ‘How glad I am that we’re doing this. Truly.’

Gary has a lot more he wants to tell Rob, but he doesn’t get the chance: one of the waiters returns to their table with the menu card, and they obediently take their time to order their food. Rob has no idea what most of the meals on the menu mean, bless him, so Gary patiently walks him through it. It’s such an ordinary topic of conversation that it’s almost as if they’re just two mates, not former bandmates who made love on a Friday night.

‘I think I’ll just have what you’re having, Gaz,’ Rob shrugs when Gary finishes going through the menu. He doesn’t look very impressed with what’s on offer, but then again he did spend the last three weeks living off Mark’s cheap family meals. In comparison, everything here is ridiculously posh and expensive. They would probably have been better off meeting up at Gary’s house after all.

‘You sure, Rob? Cos I’m having roasted fennel with tomato sauce.’

‘. . . right.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s good.’

Rob doesn’t look that impressed when he reads the description of the dish on the menu. He reluctantly agrees to try it, but not without joking that he wishes he could have the kids’ menu instead.

The waiter returns. They order their food. Or rather, Gary does it for them: Rob’s too nervous to do it, as ever. Two minutes later, the waiter quietly disappears with their orders written down in a little notebook.

With the waiter gone, Gary risks asking Robbie something that he hopes doesn’t come across as facetious or mean. ‘If you’re always too nervous to order food, Rob, then what will happen if you’re on a date with someone who gets nervous about that kinda stuff too?’

‘Nothing,’ Rob laughs. ‘We’d starve.’

‘So you don’t go to restaurants much, then?’

‘Let me put it this way, Gaz, I felt absolutely shit scared before coming here but I still came because I really fucking fancy you. And I really _am_ starving.’ Then Rob stops as if to go over his own words again. He pales slightly. ‘I probably shouldn’t have said _some_ of those things.’

Gary’s heart swells. Robbie liking Gary after all shouldn’t come as a shock, but hearing Rob blurt it out like that makes it all the more real. It makes Gary want to kiss him, and he probably would _right here_ if things weren’t so deliciously complicated still. After all, they still have to discuss the night they had. There’s still that unspoken moment they shared on a Friday night in Kensington, pulling them closer and dividing them all at the same time.

But for now, Gary’s okay with the odd bit of flirting. ‘You mean you shouldn’t have said the bit about you fancyin’ me, Rob?’

‘Yeah. I was kinda goin’ to leave that bombshell till later,’ Rob jests, like him fancying Gary is Brand New Information. ‘Like, when pudding arrives or somethin’. We could have ordered a big cake.’

Gary laughs. ‘You’re right, you admitting you fancy me _would_ have sounded a lot better after dinner. Not that I don’t mind.’

‘Do you want me to say it again later, then?’

Rob’s mouth makes the words sound flirty. Promising. It’s just a tiny, inchoate interval in a larger, more elaborate set list of love songs, but it’s what sets the rest of the conversation in motion. They already know exactly where their night is headed.

For the first twenty minutes, the boys talk only about music. Gary carefully informs Rob that he and Howard have made a careful attempt at continuing the new Take That album, and Rob doesn’t seem to mind that they have. He listens to Gary filling him on everything he’s missed at the edge of his seat.

At a quarter to eight, the boys’ food arrives on small rectangular plates. It makes the already beautifully constructed food look like a piece of art, and Rob gives Gary an uncertain look.

‘Are we _supposed_ to eat this, Gaz?’ Confused, Rob gives a small cluster of cashew nuts an uncertain poke with his fork. Next to it, there’s his roasted fennel and two impressionistic smears of red tomato sauce and white whatever-the-fuck-that-is. It looks like someone attacked the plate with a very big paintbrush. ‘I don’t know _what_ Mark was thinkin’ when he suggested this restaurant, Gaz. It’s probably the poshest place I’ve ever been in, and I’ve dated a Spice Girl . . .’

Gary makes a face as if he doesn’t quite understand the reference. Then the penny drops and Gary turns so red that he might as well be the same colour as the red velvet sofa he’s sitting on.

‘ _Christ_ , Rob. You can’t just say stuff like that! Jesus.’

‘Can’t I?’

‘ _No_!’

‘Right.’

‘I don’t have to know who you’ve been with.’

‘Right . . .’

‘Especially not if it’s someone I’m aware of,’ Gary retorts. He tries to utter these words with as little seriousness as he can, but there’s a strong undertone that suggests that Gary wants absolutely _nothing_ to do with whomever Rob used to be with. This _bothers_ him, deeply.

‘I was just _joking_ , Gaz,’ Rob counters, not really seeing the need for Gary’s reaction. ‘It was a joke. Like, “I’m the only person on the planet who’s been in Take That and four members of the Spice Girls”. That joke. You know? The one everyone used to quote and take out of context back in the day. I think T-shirts were made.’

That just makes things worse. Gary knits his brows. ‘It’s the first time _I’ve_ ever heard it.’

‘It’s quite famous. Like, put-it-on-me-tombstone-when-I’m-dead famous.’

‘Let’s . . . not talk about Spice Girls or things we’ve been in, Rob,’ Gary mumbles before eating such a large piece of roasted fennel that he won’t be able to speak again for some time.

Robbie very nearly makes another sex joke, but then he decides not to. Gary genuinely looks a little bit hurt. Clearly, Gary Barlow has different standards when it comes to sharing too much information. Or rather; Gary _has_ standards. Rob doesn’t have any.

‘I’m . . . sorry?’ Rob offers instead. He awkwardly rubs his head where the table attacked him earlier. A small bump has appeared.

‘You don’t _look_ sorry,’ Gary counters, with less anger than he wishes he could muster up. It’s hard to be genuinely angry when Robbie Williams is looking at you with those big green eyes of his. ‘You _really_ can’t bring something like that up, mate. It’s bloody rude, is what it is. _I_ don’t go on dates braggin’ about how I’ve slept with two members of Westlife either.’

‘ _Have_ you?’

‘No!’

‘Right.’

Rob reflects on his own words. Gary obviously isn’t the type of guy who brags about sex. In comparison, Rob is _so_ used to talking about sex and shagging and kissing that it’s become a standard part of his vocabulary. It just rolls off his tongue before he can stop himself. If Gary is the type of person who doesn’t feel comfortable that, he probably ought to respect that.  

‘You’re right, Gaz, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that I’m so used to datin’ and hookin’ up that I sometimes forget that you’re a real person that I want to try havin’ a decent conversation with. If you don’t want me to take the piss about what I used to get up to back in the day then I won’t. I’m sorry.’

Gary responds, ‘Rob . . . it’s not that I want you to pretend all that never happened, cos I obviously know it did and I’m absolutely fine with it, mate, I am — it’s just that I don’t like you mentionin’ it on our very first date is all. I know that makes me sound like a prude,’ Gary adds with an uncertain smile before taking a sip of water. ‘I’m not.’

‘I know, I could tell. You were very much not a prude when we had sex.’

Gary nearly spits out his drink and has a big coughing fit.

‘I think I’ll shut up now.’

***

The date continues like this for the rest of the evening, with Rob’s nervousness constantly causing ill-judged flirtatious comments and Gary turning very red and flustered in the process. It’s an odd clash of personalities, but it works: from the outside, the boys look like quite the infatuated couple indeed.  

The only problem is that their fellow guests don’t seem to like Rob and Gary very much: already, two waiters have had to come round to ask them to stop ‘coughing and laughing so much’. Predictably, Rob politely told them to fuck off with a two-fingered salute. The boys haven’t been bothered by anyone since.

‘Tell you what, Rob,’ Gary laughs after Rob’s promised him that he’s usually “a lot more behaved” during dates, ‘you were right about this place. Next time I’m taking you to a pub.’

Rob takes a modest, nervous bite of his roasted fennel. Having spent more time talking and joking and telling waiters to leave them alone, he still hasn’t finished his plate. ‘That sounds great, Gaz, but I haven’t had a drink since 1996.’

‘A chip shop, then.’

‘A chip shop, _you_?’

Gary narrows his eyes. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I mean that you don’t look like someone who goes to chip shops much. As in, you’ve got a great figure.’

Gary laughs. ‘Cheers, I guess?’ It’s hard to tell when Robbie is being serious sometimes.

‘No, I really do think you have a great figure.’ Rob says this with the air of a young child practising how to give a compliment. ‘You’re very cuddly and handsome and that. I mean, not cuddly. That sounds like I think you’re fat, which I don’t. You’re not fat. You’re sort of . . . skinny. Well, not skinny. Maybe I need to stop talking again.’

‘You know what, Rob, I thought you were meant to be _good_ at flirting,’ Gary laughs. This is not the cocky, confident Robbie Williams he used to fantasise about; rather, Rob’s a bit awkward, like him. It’s cute and sexy, if being awkward is sexy.

‘You don’t think I’m doing a good job, then?’ As ever, Rob poses it like a proper investigative question he wants an answer to, as though he might consider writing a very long scientific paper about his lack of flirting skills.

‘Not really. I mean, I appreciate that you’re trying.’

Rob sits on this for a while. He’s always considered himself to be very good at chatting people up, but now that he’s here with Gary he seems to have forgotten how to do it. Nearly everything that comes out of his mouth is a massive non-sequitur that he doesn’t know what to do with. Things seemed to be going a lot better when he and Gary were kissing in Gary’s basement.

‘I guess I just lost my touch in the days I’ve spent bein’ indoors,’ Rob muses, thinking about it very seriously. ‘Or maybe I never really meant it back in the day. The flirting. You think you’re a fucking rock star when you’re chatting up some random bird at a bar but when it’s someone you genuinely, _seriously_ want to become your long-term boyfriend I become fucking terrified.’

The only thing Gary picks up on in that sentence is “long-term boyfriend”. His eyes become as large as saucers as Robbie awkwardly tries to stop himself from ever speaking again by swallowing an oversized slice of his dish. The slice far too large for Robbie’s mouth, and he spends the next two minutes awkwardly chewing it like a very flustered cow.

Sensing that maybe the “long-term boyfriend” bit was something he should have saved till pudding, Rob changes the subject as effortlessly as the key change in his current single, _Bodies_. He does so with his mouth full, but his intentions are clear. The full story of how he feels about Gary is put away for another moment.

‘I affo-uuti _ate_ woas’ fennul, Gawwy,’ he says, meaning to say he absolutely _hates_ roasted fennel.

***

Rob leaves his plate half-empty. When asked by the waitress why he didn’t finish his dish, Rob tells her that he wants to leave some room for dessert. It’s a lie, but the waitress doesn’t seem to notice. Rob and Gary order a large slice of chocolate cake and small protein pancakes respectively, and fifteen minutes later pudding arrives.

It looks delicious. The chocolate cake is a properly layered explosion of calories, with hot chocolate sauce dripping from its sides. In comparison, the pretty blueberries on top of Gary’s protein pancakes give a false impression that he’s about to eat something a lot healthier. (He’s not, and he knows that, but he tells himself it’ll be okay as long as he goes running in the morning.)

Rob gets stuck in immediately by practically inhaling a large piece of chocolate cake. Gary takes a more patient approach: saving his pancakes for another minute, he pops one of the blueberries at the side of his dish into his mouth. Perfectly stacked on top of each other on a modern black plate, the pancakes look like another work of art that he doesn’t want to ruin yet.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy the roasted fennel, Rob,’ says Gary, seeing Rob attack his pudding with much more enthusiasm than the main course. ‘It’s quite good usually.’

Rob doesn’t speak until he’s swallowed another portion. ‘Me too, but this cake _really_ makes up for it. I think it’s probably the second best cake I’ve ever eaten.’

‘Where did you eat the best one?’

‘The best ever cake? I can’t remember. But I must have had it at _some_ point. I think. Anyway, have I ever told you that I sleep eat, Gaz?’

Another completely random piece of information. Gary’s used to it by now, but it still makes him laugh because the comments are ridiculously ill-suited for the kind of date they’re on. ‘I don’t think you ever have, no.’

‘Well, I sleep eat,’ Rob reiterates, like it’s a piece of information he thinks is very important indeed. He swallows another piece of chocolate cake. ‘Meaning I eat in me sleep.’

Gary’s never heard of it. ‘So you wake up in the middle of the night and . . .?’

‘Eat, yes. I never even remember doin’ it. Sometimes I wake up in the morning with these weird _milk_ stains all over me pyjamas, not knowing how the fuck they got there. You know what I mean?’

Gary means his next comment quite innocently. ‘You sure they’re milk stains, Rob?’

‘Good point. They weren’t when I woke up next to _you_ , I know that much.’

This comment is so unexpected and sly that Gary accidentally ends up taking quite a big slice of pancake, and he has to take a quick sip of water before he has another coughing fit. Unfortunately, the water and the grin on Robbie’s face only make things worse, and he turns as red as a tomato as he half-coughs, half-wheezes into his napkin. Eventually, Rob has to start patting Gary on the back to make it go away.  

‘Sorry,’ Rob says facetiously. It’s hard to keep a straight face when Gary’s cheeks have gone the same colour as a fire truck. His hand is still on the small of Gary’s back, as if he’s quite forgotten he ever put it there. ‘I probably shouldn’t have said that either.’

‘Probably not, mate.’

‘But now that we’re _here_ , we might as well . . .’

Rob gives Gary an uncertain look. He wants to talk about _it_ ; the night they had. He’s no longer being facetious. He keeps the jokes about milk and food and Spice Girls aside.

‘ _Right_ , Gaz? I mean, we might as well talk about it _now_. . . You did say you wanted me to wait till after dinner. We’ve _had_ dinner.’

Gary studies Rob’s face. Frankly, he’s not sure whether he wants to talk about it yet. As unpredictable as their evening has been, Gary imagined they would be talking about their one-night _at home_ , not whilst Rob’s still trying to shove a piece of chocolate cake into his mouth.

Then again, perhaps Rob’s unpredictability and the unconventional way they got back together makes this the best moment of all. They were always going to share their own sides of the story at the most unexpected, unsuitable moment possible.

‘You sure you wouldn’t rather wait until after pudding?’ This comes from Gary. He’s asking just in case Rob would rather continue inhaling pieces of chocolate cake. He can wait.

‘Would _you_ , though, Gaz? I mean, I hope you don’t mind me sayin’, but you seem like you’ve had something on your mind all evening. And I know what that thing on your mind is, so you might as well say it out loud.’

Gary looks at his unfinished pile of protein pancakes, then at Rob. He can tell by the way Rob’s looking at him that he genuinely wants to talk about this. It isn’t just another chain of non-sequiturs that he’ll regret later; Rob wants to say his confession out loud before he can embarrass himself with more unsolicited stories about his sex life.

‘No. You’re right, I wouldn’t,’ Gary acquiesces. His heart starts beating faster than it would before a concert. ‘I wouldn’t want to wait at all.’

Then Gary sighs and pushes away his plate because the butterflies in his tummy have made him lose his appetite. How do couples ever get round to eating anything when there’s always something making their stomachs feel like jelly?

‘The thing is, though, Rob, I don’t even know where to _start_. There’s so much that I wanna tell you that I think we’d be here till morning. That’s why I’ve been puttin’ it off. Once I start talkin’ I’ll end up telling you bloody everything, including stuff I’ve never even said out _loud_ before.’

‘Then let _me_ start,’ Rob offers. ‘I know I always go on and on when I’m nervous but I’ll be quick this time, promise. And not cos what I’m about to say isn’t important, cos it _is_ , but cos I’ve practised these words. Three times. First in front of a mirror and twice with Mark pretendin’ he was you. Which was _weird_ , Gaz,’ he adds, in case Gary may have been thinking otherwise.

Gary raises his eyebrows. ‘You made Mark pretend he was me?’

‘Technically _he_ offered,’ Rob seems keen to point out. ‘But I _have_ thought about what I’m about to tell you, is what I’m sayin’. A lot. I know what I’m doing ‘ere, Gaz!’

‘That doesn’t sound like you.’

‘I know. But that’s how much getting this right means to me, Gaz.’ Rob smiles a little nervously, and Gary thinks he can feel his stomach do an enormous backflip. ‘I really, really want to get it right this time.’

‘To be honest, mate, you probably will as long as you don’t bring up girl groups again . . .’

‘I won’t. I mean, I _might_. But only if I need to exemplify certain parts of my sex life.’

‘Right.’

‘Cos my turbulent sex life is a big reason why I did what I did.’

‘That’s . . . great, Rob, but maybe just skip to the night of the charity concert,’ Gary presses Rob light-heartedly. It doesn’t show, but Gary’s _loving_ this conversation, as perfectly random and unpredictable as it is. In fact, it’s probably the first laid-back chat the two of them have had for years, or ever. For in spite of what’s about to be told and shared, Gary doesn’t feel a smidgen of worry or fear. He doesn’t feel nervous like he did when he and Rob first met again; he doesn’t feel scared — rather, he feels absolutely _wonderful_. Robbie Williams makes him feel wonderful.

Rob’s about to make it a lot better. He takes a deep breath, pushes away his empty plate and tells Gary absolutely everything, from Children in Need to the moment he _knew_. Gary listens with baited breath.

‘What you need to know about me in order to understand why I did what I did, Gaz, is that I’ve never had a long-term relationship, just a lot of one-night-stands and love affairs,’ Rob tells Gary matter-of-factly. He doesn’t sugar-coat it to spare Gary’s feelings. It is what it is. ‘A lot of me is said about me in the press that isn’t true, but everything they say about me love life _is_. I’ve slept around, a lot. I’ve done everything it is humanly possible to do when it comes to sex.’

Rob stops for a second when he can tell that this admission bothers Gaz (in the nineties, Gary spent most of his time sat behind the piano, not sleeping with fans or kissing groupies), but Rob knows he has to keep talking. He needs to say these things out loud, because his turbulent love life is the main reason why he left. ‘Basically, I’ve had more sex than most. It’s not something I’m terribly proud of cos me actions were mostly influenced by drugs and alcohol and my inherent fear of commitment, but I don’t regret any of it either. I’ve had fun, you know what I mean? I’ve had a lot of fun.’

Rob briefly smiles as if visited by a particularly fond memory, then sobers again when he catches Gary’s eyes. He’s reached the important bit. This is the part he’s rehearsed over and over in the mirror; the part he needs to get right.

‘So when you kissed me and we slept together, I didn’t think anything would ever come out of it,’ Rob explains, sounding serious. This matters to him, because he knows it matters to Gaz. ‘In that moment, my kissing you was just me taking another stupid decision I probably wasn’t going to remember. I’ve always been convinced that I’m never going to get married or have kids or have a proper relationship with someone, so you were just another toy I could play with for an evening.

‘I know that sounds awful, mate, but that’s how I felt, at the time. I was just going shag you and write a number one song with you the next day, like nothing had ever happened. That’s how it usually goes, to be honest. But then I wake up to you the next morning, right, and things feel different. I can tell, spiritually, that things have changed inside of my soul.’

Gary nods to show that he’s still listening. He knows where this is going already, and yet he wants nothing more than to hear it out loud.

‘Usually I don’t feel anything after a one-night stand, but I did this time,’ Rob goes on. ‘I felt warm and happy and fucking ecstatic inside, and it fucking scared me cos I’m so used to feeling numb all the time. I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast but I can still remember what it felt like to have you kiss and look at me. You know what I mean? Without me knowing or wanting it, I’d fallen in love with you. I witnessed me entire world change in front of me just cos we kissed and had sex.’

Rob smiles again. Gary has grabbed his hands, encouraging him to speak. Their hands fit perfectly together, like they were made for each other.

‘But it was more than that, Gaz,’ Rob goes on. This is the part he had trouble rehearsing. ‘That morning, my main train of thought wasn’t how much I regretted sleeping with you, but how badly I wanted to _be_ with you, romantically. I wanted to do nothing more than to wake you up and do whatever it is that socially functioning human beings in love do, but I didn’t. I left, cos I was scared. I fucked everything up because I was _scared_ , Gaz.’

Gary’s heart starts hammering in his chest. What Rob’s just told him is everything he’s ever wanted but never dared dream of. It’s the one conclusion Mark was always convinced they’d reach; the o _ne_ future Gary thought Mark was absolutely ludicrous for ever envisioning for them.

Mark was always hopeful, but Gary never was. When Robbie e-mailed him a month ago, Gary was absolutely convinced that was it. It was over. Gary stopped dreaming. He never ever considered that Rob might have left because he was scared. Gary had an inkling, sure, but the anger blew all of that away. He became convinced that Robbie hated him. He became bitter and scared until another e-mail had to give him hope again.

Till Gary came here, there was always the possibility of Rob not liking him. There was always going to be an alternate universe where Rob didn’t turn up or the flowers were rubbish or James’s car broke down. Things could so easily have been disastrous, but for some strange, serendipitous, faithful reason, their date has gone exactly as it should have gone, with all the bad jokes and awkward hugs in between. It’s the redemption Robbie needed and the hope that Gary has always been looking for. In other words, it’s been absolutely perfect.

It makes Gary want to kiss Rob. He doesn’t, yet, but he does place his hand on Rob’s thigh and squeezes him there.

‘What scared you?’ Gary sounds terrified and intrigued at the same time. There are a million good reasons why Rob could have left him. ‘What stopped you?’

Rob gives Gary a sad smile. He places his hand on Gary’s; making sure, almost, that Gary won’t stop touching him there. ‘What scared me, Gaz — what’s _always_ scared me . . . I think it was the prospect of commitment. The idea of me being in a functional adult relationship. You know what I mean? In the blink of an eye, me mind decided to bring up every single reason you and me wouldn’t work out. I foresaw every single tiff and fight and argument and every single way I’d ultimately be letting you down again, and something inside of me must have decided, “Fuck this, I’m not made for this shit!” I just wanna get _laid_ , not settle down with someone . . .

‘So basically what I did is leave and run and push away me feelings like I’d never even felt them. I wasn’t even plannin’ to send you that e-mail at first, I was just goin’ to hop on the first plane to L.A. and erase meself from existence. You know? I was going to pretend nothing had happened and just live me life as a retired popstar and that. The only reason I e-mailed you at all is cos I needed someone to aim me anger at.

‘But then I realised . . . Mark Owen made me realise that I didn’t leave you in the middle of the night cos I was scared of us ending up in disaster, I left cos I was shit scared of you being the best thing that has ever happened to me. Cos you _are_ , Gaz,’ Rob adds, looking down at Gary’s hand in his. ‘You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’m too scared to admit it cos I don’t think I know how to feel happy anymore.’

Rob rubs his nose. He concludes his story a little sheepishly, like he never got round to rehearsing this part. ‘So I guess that’s _my_ side of the story, Gaz. I know it’s embarrassing.’

But Gary doesn’t think it’s embarrassing at all. He feels warm inside just thinking about how _brave_ Rob must have been to tell him all that. And what’s more, Robbie Williams has just confessed his feelings to him! This really is turning out to be the best ever evening.

‘Oh, _Rob_.’ Gary gives Rob a warm, appreciative smile. ‘I really wish you’d realised sooner! We could have skipped all this.’

‘I know. Especially with you fancyin’ me for almost a year and that.’

Gary laughs. He assumes that Robbie’s joking. Then he sees Rob’s puzzled face, and he realises with a pang that Rob obviously doesn’t know how long he’s _really_ been in love with him.

‘Rob . . .’ Gary rubs the back of his head. He tries to bring it to Rob gently. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this, mate, but I’ve fancied you for _years_. . .’

Rob struggles to wrap this head around this. For some reason, it feels like he and Gary have only known each other since the football match they went to, not since the nineties.

‘ _How_ many years?’

Gary looks away. He mumbles his answer.

‘You’ll have to speak up, Gaz.’

‘Twenty . . .’

Silence. Then the enormity of the number sinks in.

‘ _TWENTY_!?’

Rob repeats the number so loudly that several guests look up at them. Another waitress gives them the evil eye as she passes, and Gary goes so red that his face perfectly matches the red velvet sofa he’s sitting on.

‘GAZ! WHAT THE HELL!? YOU’VE FANCIED ME FOR TWENTY FUCKING YEARS AND YOU NEVER EVEN _TOLD_ ME!?’

Robbie shouts all this, and Gary has to shush him before the entire restaurant finds out that Gary Barlow and Robbie Williams are, possibly, an item.

‘You don’t have to shout!’ Gary hisses. He anxiously repositions Rob’s massive flower bouquet in such a way that it covers their faces and makes the other guests unable to read their lips. Gary still hasn’t seen what’s written inside the gift tag.

‘Twenty _years_ , though!’ Rob reiterates, matching his voice to Gary’s whisper. He shoves the vase back into its original position, not giving a shit that other people know that they’re an item. ‘Why did you never tell me?’

‘You were very unavailable at the time, Rob!’ Gary whispers. He makes a deliberate attempt at putting the vase back in the position he put it in earlier, but then one of the waitresses angrily starts towards the table and asks them if they could “please stop moving the vase and causing creases in the table”. The vase stays put. Gary goes on, ‘And you were too cool for me anyway. You should have seen yourself, Rob. I would never have stood a chance.’

‘I’d argue it was more the other way around, Gaz,’ Rob argues. ‘ _You_ were the cool, untouchable lead singer, not me.’

‘Not by _choice_ ,’ Gary mumbles.  

‘ _Still_. Twenty _years_ , Gaz. That’s — Jesus, Gaz, that’s over half my life! _Your_ life!’

‘You make it sound like something terrible!’

‘It is when I didn’t know you’ve been harbouring a secret gay crush on me for twenty years! We could have been married by now.’

‘That isn’t a thing yet, Rob.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s just stupid.’

‘I know.’

‘Twenty _years_ , though,’ Rob reiterates. He shakes his head as though he can’t still can’t believe that Gary has loved him _this_ long. ‘Fucking hell, Gaz. That’s a bit longer than I thought.’

‘You don’t have to keep bringing it up.’

‘But . . . twenty _years_.’

‘Weren’t we talking about you suddenly realisin’ you have feelings for me, Rob? That’s kind of a big deal, that is. Like, life-changing.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Rob says, like he’s only just realised it. He poses his next question with such childish frankness that Gary’s not sure he’s really on a date with Robbie Williams, the biggest flirt in the universe. 'What do we _do_? Do we kiss now? Do we go on more dates or something? Do we start touchin’ each other? Cos I’d be down with that . . .’

Gary laughs. There’s something quite perfect about being able to talk about such an important matter so casually. ‘You didn’t rehearse this bit, then? That’s a bit disappointing, that, Rob. I had such high hopes and everything . . .’

‘Oh don’t _start_ , Gaz, I’m not used to tellin’ people I fancy them! I usually skip that part and start givin’ people head. That’s not me offering, by the way. Unless you _want_ me to offer, Gaz . . .’

‘It’s a bit early for that,’ Gary points out matter-of-factly. He assumes Rob must be joking. (It’s hard to tell with Robbie sometimes.)

‘I know. We should probably kiss first or something. Again, I don’t know how these things go! I should really have practiced this bit.’

‘Not with Mark, I hope.’

‘Not with Mark,’ Rob assures him.

Gary can’t remember who initiated their first ever kiss, but it hardly matters. This time, their kiss will be perfect. It’ll erase any memory of ever kissing each other on Gary’s sofa in the dark.

This time, they won’t regret any of it.

‘Let’s practice kissing each other together, then,’ Gary says, bravely, and he leans forward and softly kisses Robbie on the mouth, eyes fluttering closed.

It’s no more than a soft peck, but it’s good enough to make Rob want more and kiss Gary back. The tingling sensation of Rob’s desperate mouth sends a thrill up and down Gary’s spine, and he has to stop himself from sliding his hands underneath the hem of Robbie’s jacket.

He does it anyway. His hands slide onto the small of Rob’s back. He’s reminded of touching Robbie there under very different circumstances, and his fingers nearly start doing something he shouldn’t be doing in public.

They break apart before things can get out of hand. The smug look on Rob’s face makes Gary forget what they were talking about. He starts stammering.

‘What — what were we talking about again, Rob?’

‘We were talkin’ about talkin’ about our feelings, I think, Gaz,’ Rob tells him. He can’t stop grinning. It’s the happiest, smuggest Gary has ever seen him. Annoyingly, he knows exactly how good that kiss was. ‘I think we’ve both made our point.’

Gary laughs a nervous sort of laugh. ‘We have, haven’t we?’

Then Gary looks down at Rob’s lips again, remembering the half-serious offer Rob made him two minutes ago. A crude, filthy image of Robbie sucking his cock with that delicious pink mouth suddenly flashes before him, and it’s hard not to want more after all — right here, in this restaurant, with the curtains closed. He _wants_ it to happen, but _should_ they, really?

Rob thinks he can see the question on Gary’s mind. He places his hand on Gary’s knee, touching him there with the confidence of someone who’s already touched Gary a million times.

‘What are you thinking of, Gaz?’

‘It’s what you said, Rob. I don’t know what we — what _I_. . . what I want us to do next,’ Gary says. There are a lot of things that he wants to do to Rob, but they’re all things that feel impossibly early for the sort of date they’re on. ‘I’ve loved you for years but I never even _imagined_ a world where you’d end up loving me back. Meaning that I’ve got no clue what we should or _s_ houldn’t do now that we’ve kissed. It’s like you said — what _I_ said . . . we both didn’t rehearse this part. Maybe we should have done.’

‘I know. I wasn’t sure something would happen either,’ Rob agrees. ‘Kissing you was fucking ace, though, Gaz. We could kiss now and figure out how we’re gonna be a functioning couple later, if you know what I mean . . .’

Rob squeezes Gary’s knee again, sending an electric current towards a place that Gary definitely does not want to be thinking of in the middle of a very crowded restaurant. Clearly, Rob has more of an idea of what he wants to do than Gary does.

‘What do you say, Gaz?’ Something in Rob’s voice changes; there’s less of an awkwardness and more of the coquettishness that Gary fell for in the first place. Maybe his offer was him being serious after all. ‘Is that something you’d feel comfortable with doing? Kissing and . . . maybe a lil’ more?’

Gary wrongly assumes Rob must be talking about the two of them having _sex_ , and his mind goes blank. The thought terrifies him. After all, did they not ruin their relationship by just having sex? Did they not kick-start a shitstorm of nastiness by doing just that, _more_? Should they not just wait and save the sex for later?

‘Rob, mate . . .’ Gary finds it hard to put his thoughts into words. He doesn’t want to hurt Rob by rejecting him, but there’s also a part of Rob that very much _does_ want to be touched by him. Ideally, he wishes he could have a safe mix of kissing and touching and not doing anything at all. ‘I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but I didn’t — I didn’t come here to _sleep_ with you tonight. As in, I don’t want to have sex. Sex that would involve _condoms_ ,’ he adds in a whisper, as if he wasn’t sure Rob would understand him.

Rob just laughs.

‘Who said anything about sleeping with you, Gaz? I know I’ve been going on about me sex life and all but I agree that we should probably wait before we do something really dramatic.’ Rob says this very seriously, like he’s been thinking about it for some time. ‘I _was_ bein’ serious, though, Gaz. I _would_ really like to give you head. Sorry! I know I probably shouldn’t be sayin’ that. Think of it as an apology for all the stupid things I’ve done?’

Gary seriously considers the offer again, then shakes his head. ‘We can’t.’

‘Why not?’ Again, a genuine question.

Apart from the very reasonable ‘it’s too soon’, Gary struggles to come up with a good reason as to why they shouldn’t just do it. His eyes flick at the two tables he can see from their booth, where very ordinary couples are having a posh, dignified dinner.

‘Because . . . we’re in public?’ Gary says, though he doesn’t sound very convinced. In a corner, one of the waiters who told them off for moving the glass vase around is watching them warily. ‘Because we’re _celebrities_?’

‘So? We’ll just close those red curtains, then,’ Rob offers practically, and Gary hates how much he loves Rob for it. He hates how much he _wants it._ ‘The curtains are for a reason, you know, Gaz! What else do you think the people in the other booths are doin’? Not talkin’, I know that much. I just need to make sure I don’t get any cake crumbs on me trousers and we’ll be fine.’

Then Robbie sobers. It happens quite suddenly. His voice takes on a more serious tone, and his body language changes. He isn’t just being funny — he’s genuinely thought this through, along with Gary’s reaction that he saw coming from a mile off.

‘Putting all jokes aside, Gaz . . . I‘ve never been in a proper relationship before, so I genuinely don’t know what people on dates do. Seriously. I don’t know _anything_ about this datin’ stuff, just that it usually leads to me sleeping with someone. I know that’s probably not very romantic, but that’s what bein’ a popstar turned me into. Or rather, I made meself think that’s how you treat people you’re marginally attracted to. You know, by sleeping with them. So if my offering to “kiss you” comes across as shallow, then I get that. I get if it makes you think I’m joking. But it’s not meant to come across like that. Everything I’ve said and offered comes from a place of love and me wanting to be the best ever boyfriend I’ve ever been.

‘I’m still learning. I don’t know how proper boyfriends treat their boyfriends. I don’t know how proper boyfriends say sorry. All I know is that I’m deeply sorry for everything I’ve ever put you through and that only way I think I can make it up to you _now_ is by giving you a blowjob that I hope you’ll enjoy a _bit_.’ (Here, Gary lets out a very loud, unflattering snort that makes a passing waitress shush him.) ‘Next time I do something stupid I might buy you a car or something. I don’t know. You do drive, don’t you? You have a driver? Okay.

‘Either way, Gaz, I hope that you know that I’m sincerely very serious about our relationship and that I’m willing to wait if you are. I know our first time was a bit weird and that I should probably prove that I’m capable of sticking around till we make love again. It’s your call. If you don’t wanna do anything at all then that’s cool too, but I really _would_ like to prove how much you mean to me. Even if it’s probably a bit self-indulgent cos I fucking love your cock, mate.’

Gary laughs out loud. He relaxes again. What’s Rob just told him is exactly what Gary wants to have but didn’t dare ask for himself.

After all this time, Robbie understands how he’s feeling more than Gary was expecting. He genuinely wants to do things right this time, and it shows just how badly Rob wants to be with him.

A different, younger Robbie Williams might not even have shown up on the date at all. He would never have left his house. And if he had, he would not have been gentle like this. He would not have been nervous and awkward and kind. He would only have cared about his own release, not his lover’s. He would not have offered to give himself so fully. He would just have fucked Gary and left, like he did a month ago. But not anymore. The Robbie Williams who’s here today is the best, kindest lover Gary could ever have wished for.

Something makes Gary make up his mind for a final time. His eyes flick at the thin red curtains outside their booth. It brings back to mind the suggestive things Robbie wrote to him a week ago:

_Sometimes I still think about what it felt like to kiss your mouth and I’m back inside your studio again … holding you tight and wondering if this is the best or worst thing I’ve ever done …_

_I have days when the thought of kissing you fills me with guilt and hatred … and days when I want to do nothing more than to make you come again …_

They were always going to do _something_ tonight. It won’t make their date more dreamy or perfect, but it’s precisely what they need: a chance, perhaps, to prove how much they trust and value each other still, in spite of it all. It might happen too soon, or too fast, but if it does then at least they’ll be able to slow down together, and never on their own.

‘Rob, if you tell Howard about this I never want to see you again.’

***

The curtains close. Not only does it shield Rob and Gary from the rest of the world, it also shrouds their red booth in a sort of half-dark that Gary’s eyes need getting used to. It’s like they’ve entered a different universe where they’re the only two people alive. From this moment on, the rest of the restaurant no longer exists.

There’s a small table lamp next to the vase, but Gary doesn’t bother turning it on. Neither does Rob. He confidently sits back down once he’s made sure the curtains don’t even let in the thinnest strip of light, and he gives Gary a wordless, reassuring smile.

Gary doesn’t smile back. Rob almost asks him if he really does want this and if he wouldn’t rather finish his pancakes, but the look that Gary gives him next is enough. He nods almost imperceptibly. It’s the permission Robbie needs to put his hand on Gary’s leg.

Gary swallows. He turns red. He can feel Rob’s hand moving up his thigh, with Rob stopping just below his crotch. His fingers are inches away from the zipper of his trousers, and for a second Gary wouldn’t mind if they went a lot further after all.

‘No sex,’ Gary says, more as a reminder to himself than to Rob.

‘Don’t worry, Gaz. I know what I’m doing . . .’

It takes Gary a second to realise that Rob isn’t just talking about what he’s about to do with his hands and mouth — he’s talking about their relationship. He’s talking about their future. Rob doesn’t just know what he’s doing because he’s done it before; he knows what he’s doing because he’s finally beginning to realise what he wants their relationship to be like.

That is, Rob doesn’t just want to pleasure Gaz tonight. He wants more. He wants their relationship to be built on the foundations of comfort and trust, with Gary trusting Rob enough to allow him to be touched in public. He wants to show Gary how much he loves him in both selfish ways and ways that are not.

Rob still needs to figure out how, and when, but one thing he does know is how ridiculously good he is at giving people head.

It shows. Rob pulls down Gary’s zipper. It’s so impossibly gentle that it takes Gary’s breath away. Rob doesn’t hurry; he touches Gary as slowly as if he were picking petals from a flower. He’s clearly done this before, and yet he caresses Gary’s skin like he’s never done it at all.

It’s worlds away from the Robbie Gary slept with last month. Back then, Robbie was hard and rough and quick, not really caring if Gary came as long as _he_ did. Two kisses in, Rob was already thinking about leaving Gary the next day. He didn’t even think Gary was particularly interesting, not really.

But now, Gary’s the most important person in the entire universe. Gary’s pleasure matters. It matters that he comes, so Robbie listens to every single sound Gary makes: the gasps, the moans, the whispered expletives as Robbie’s hands work their magic.

Gary’s enjoying this. The effects of Robbie’s fingers are instantaneous: red-faced, Gary tilts his head so that Robbie can kiss him on his neck. He closes his eyes as if wanting to relive the feeling of Robbie kissing his earlobe over and over. It’s another sensitive spot Rob has unlocked, from Gary’s hands to his neck to the little spot next to his crotch where Rob touches him next. Over the next couple of months, Rob will unlock almost every single one of those places.

Rob’s fingers make Gary jerk up his hips. He whispers a terrible, needy series of expletives that become the permission Robbie needs to pull down Gary’s trousers and fondle him there.

It’s even better than Gary remembers it. Robbie’s good. He’s gentle. He takes his time running his fingers up and down the shape of Gary’s cock. He doesn’t rush pulling Gary’s boxers down; he waits until he’s palmed and teased and groped Gary long enough. Outside the red velvet curtains, the world keeps spinning on its axis. Business goes on. Waitresses walk past their booth every couple of minutes, not daring to go inside it. They keep taking people’s others as though they’ve quite forgotten Robbie and Gary were ever there.

Even farther beyond, outside the restaurant doors, life goes on at a different pace. The people of London rush towards their trains as Rob kisses Gary so _slowly_ that they might as well be life-long lovers. They take things slow while the rest of the world hurries along.

And yet: Gary’s desperate for more. His eyes flick at the closed red curtains, terrified and both excited that a waitress might come in and walk in on them after all. It’d be a delicious, outrageous sight: Gary with his trousers down his ankles, legs spread wide on the sofa; Robbie palming him through his boxers with a red flush on his face.

It’s one of the naughtiest things Gary’s ever done, which is perhaps the reason why he’s enjoying it so much. It’s everything he could have done in the nineties but never did because of how stupidly in love he was: the stolen kisses, the secret glances during gigs, the shags in hotels, the forbidden touches in the back of a car. Gary’s catching up on those naughty, stolen moments now; minute by minute, touch by touch, starting with Robbie’s mouth.

The boxers go. They join Gary’s trousers on the floor, and there is a split second of Gary feeling utterly vulnerable and naked and _scared_.

Then he feels Robbie wrap his lips around him, and all his inhibition leaves him. He moans. He no longer cares that he’s naked or in public or in trouble. All there is, is this, right here: Rob’s lips, wrapped around his cock. Those _eyes_ , constantly flicking back up at him as Robbie bops his head up and down. Rob’s hands, fingering him in all the right places.

It’s an obscene sight, and it looks even better up close. Everywhere he looks, Gary’s reminded of how wrong this is. How _soon_ it is. There’s the dribble on Robbie’s chin; the stain on his own boxers; that beautiful, lovely bouquet, neglected in the middle of the table with its gift tag askew; and then those blood-red curtains, an inch away from revealing everything. This moment isn’t Rob and Gary taking it show; this is them dangerously rushing through their relationship at one hundred miles an hour, one touch at a time.

Robbie keeps going. His lips are swollen. He kisses Gary’s cock all the way down to his balls, and it makes Gary moan so _hard_ that Rob laughs and stops.

‘Gaz, _behave_!’ Rob chuckles. He looks annoyingly smug to have elicited that sort of reaction. ‘I thought you didn’t want people to find out what we were doin’ in ‘ere?’

‘Sorry. It’s just — _Christ_ , Rob, that was good, that was,’ Gary sighs. He can still feel the ghost of every single kiss Robbie gave him. ‘ _So good_.’

‘See? It’s not so bad bein’ in love with a sexually very experienced person after all, Gaz.’

Gary’s reply is stern but warm. ‘ _Rob_. We talked about this.’

‘Sorry. Shall I continue sucking you off?’

Gary doesn’t have to say anything. Rob keeps going. His mouth is wet and tight and willing, and before long Gary loses control of his own body. He can’t stop shaking. He feels warm inside as he watches his thick, hard cock disappear into Robbie’s mouth over and over again. Goosebumps appear where Robbie’s fingertips touch him. A tingling sensation moves from his head to his toes and back up again like a wave, and it’s the tip of Robbie’s tongue that does it. Gary comes down his throat.

It’s the best orgasm Gary has had for years. Hyper aware of his surroundings, he has to bite his lip to stop himself from shouting out Robbie’s name. It draws blood. The taste of iron touches his tongue, and for a terrifying, infinitesimal second Gary can no longer remember where he is until he feels Rob’s wet, perfect mouth on him again, grounding him.

The kiss is so impossibly _soft_ that it makes Gary’s laugh against Robbie’s lips. A wave of pure, unadulterated _joy_ overtakes him, and Gary has a big fit of laughter.

They have to stop kissing when Rob realises that Gary can’t stop giggling. He’s had various reactions to his love-making, but never that. Never like this.

‘Are you makin’ fun of me, Gaz?’

‘Christ, no — that was amazing, that was, Rob. Absolutely amazing. Fucking hell.’

‘Would you rank it in your top three blowjobs of all time?’

Gary tucks himself in as he thinks about it seriously. ‘Maybe top five? Top four.’

‘Are you sayin’ that just to stroke me ego, Gaz?’

‘No, I really did think it was good.’ Then Gary sees Rob rubbing his head where the table attacked him earlier. The small bump that was there earlier has become a much bigger bump. ‘How’s your head, by the way?’

‘Well, you said I was top four so obviously not _that_ bad . . .’

The joke goes over Gary’s head. He looks down at Rob’s swollen lips, wanting to kiss him there over and over and over again. He still feels the high of the orgasm linger in his arms and legs and the rest of his body, and he doesn’t want it to ever fade. He wants to feel this lovely and warm and _fucked_ for the rest of his life. It’s like he’s just done the biggest and best gig of his life, tenfold. That’s how good he feels.

‘I mean it, though, Rob,’ Gary stresses, taking Rob’s hands in his. He loves that they can go from being giggling little children to being utterly romantic and in-love. ‘I really loved that. You’re so good to me. So good.’

Rob’s not sure he’s deserving of that type of compliment yet.

‘You mean I’m good to you whenever I don’t leave you in the middle of the night,’ Rob adds, feeling like he ought to prove himself still. He’s shown Gary that he can kiss and pleasure him, but he still needs to prove he’s capable of being in a relationship. That they can take things slow or not at all. That part will begin once they open the curtains back up and leave, together.

‘Well, yes,’ Gary frowns. ‘That wasn’t very nice.’

‘I know. But I _promise_ I’ll never do something like that again, Gaz,’ Rob swears. ‘I really hope you can one day forgive me for how badly I treated you.’

‘Rob . . . I forgave you the moment you walked in ‘ere with those flowers,’ Gary assures him, and he gently kisses Robbie on the mouth, right where it all started a month ago.

Gary has already lost count of how many times they’ve kissed, but there’s something remarkably real and honest about this one that makes it feel like they’re together already. In a way, they were broken lovers from the moment they met, desperately in need of a spark. The Take That reunion was that spark, and their first night was the fire. They could have let their tortured relationship burn down everything they have, but in the end, all they needed was love. Through kisses and unspoken forgiveness, they’re finally able to move on, one step at a time:

‘Gaz?’

‘Yes, Rob?’

Rob kisses Gary’s forehead. He can almost feel Gary melt inside his arms. ‘I really like being with you.’

Over time, Rob will learn that it’s soft moment like these that Gary likes most. Over time, they’ll learn everything there is to know about each other. They’ll learn to slow things down and speed things up again. They’ll learn that their rushed, awkward first time wasn’t indicative of what the rest of their relationship will be like. They’ll cherish tonight, but they’ll cherish the nights that follow it even more.

Over time, they’ll learn so much about each other that it’s like they’ve been lovers forever.

‘Me too, Rob. Me too.’

***

If someone had told Gary that he’d one day be leaving a London restaurant having just told _Robbie Williams_ that he fancies him, he would have laughed in their faces. He would simply have refused to believe them. A happy ending is a possibility for many, but not for him. Not for Gary. He was going to end up alone with just the memory of Robbie’s touch to keep him alive. They weren’t going to be together, ever.

But then tonight happened. He and Rob kissed. They _touched_. They ate wonderful food underneath a sky of red and talked about things he would never have thought possible: love, pancakes, music and sex, but also their future. They talked about their future as well as their past, and it was the best conversation Gary has ever had, from the touches to the kisses to the look on Rob’s face when he came.

That bouquet, though? Questionable.

‘I don’t know _why_ you let Jay talk you into buyin’ these flowers, Rob,’ Gary tells Robbie as much as they walk down the moonlit streets of London together. They’ve been taking it in turns to carry Rob’s mammoth-sized bouquet, and this time it’s Gary’s turn. Two minutes in, his arms are already beginning to feel quite sore. It also doesn’t help that the gift tag keeps poking his wrists. ‘I don’t even think I have a vase that’s big enough. I might have to keep it in me bath or something.’

‘But then how will you take a bath?’

‘You’re right. I’ll put it in me indoor pool . . .’ Gary doesn’t have a pool.

‘I probably should have gone with something else, in hindsight. I don’t know what I was thinkin’ listening to Jay. Next time I’ll bring a massive box of chocolates or something.’

‘That sounds great, Rob, but I don’t eat chocolate anymore, remember? I gain a pound just _looking_ at a Mars bar these days.’

‘Even better, then. I’ll get to keep the chocolate but still make meself look really thoughtful and generous.’

‘I don’t think that’s how date gifts work, Rob.’

‘Don’t they?’

‘No. You’re supposed to give your crush somethin’ they actually _like_ , you are!’

Rob thinks about this seriously. ‘What _do_ you like, Gaz?’

‘Dunno. Music. Instruments. _Star Wars_. You’d have been much better off just buyin’ me an action figure or somethin’.’

‘Seriously? You have _Star Wars_ action figures?’

‘Yeah. I have an entire collection at home. Didn’t you notice last time you came round?’

Rob shrugs. ‘I think I was too busy tryin’ not to have sexual thoughts about your lightsaber.’

They continue walking in silence. This would usually be an obvious sign that something’s terribly wrong, but Rob and Gary are already so at ease with each other that even a silence no longer feels uncomfortable. Rather, the silence allows them to reflect on their evening in private – even though the streets of London are probably too crowded to allow for much thinking at all.

It’s ten o’clock, but the streets are still filled with people, young and old. Most are joyous, curious tourists keen to see the city in a different light; others are students and tired businessmen on a pub stroll. They all have their reasons for being here, but it’s probably Rob and Gary who are enjoying themselves the most, in the end.

‘Can I just say something, Rob?’ This comes from Gary. As if being in love is their armour that protects them from the outside world, they haven’t been recognised by a single person.

‘Sure,’ says Rob. It’s the first time he’s said something for minutes, and he’s almost taken aback by how strangely cheerful he sounds. Which is just as well, because Gary has spotted it too:

‘You seem _so_ much happier than you did three months ago. _Much_ happier. When you first came back to Take That I thought you looked fucking uncomfortable around everyone, but you’ve really come out of your shell lately. You joke a lot more as well,’ Gary adds, referring to all the ill-timed Spice Girls and blowjob jokes Rob has been making all evening. ‘It’s good. I mean, it’s bloody annoying at times, Rob, but good. It’s nice to see you happy. It’s what we’re doin’ it all for, isn’t it?’

‘Good thing I left the band, then!’ Rob jokes, which elicits a warm, conspiratorial laugh from Gary that makes Rob feel sort of warm and fuzzy inside. Then: ‘In all seriousness, though, Gaz, it’s all cos of you, to be honest. All these silly jokes and comments I keep makin’ — that’s just me feeling at ease with you. I don’t say stupid stuff make meself sound like a twat but because I really, really enjoy bein’ with you. Seriously. Usually, I don’t even say anythin’ on dates, I just sit there feeling fucking uncomfortable until I sleep with them.’

‘Guess I’m doing an all right job, then.’

‘Guess so, Gaz.’

Robbie laughs. He can’t stop grinning. He’s constantly looking up at the world with all the joy and childlike wonder of someone who’s never been here before. The cold touch of winter is in the air, and yet he couldn’t feel warmer. There are people all around them, but the only person he can see is Gary.

If he concentrates, Rob can still feel the exact moment Gary came for him. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the look on Gary’s face when he touched him again. He can still taste Gary on his tongue.

Usually, memories like these would elicit no more than misplaced pride or arrogance, but Rob doesn’t feel proud this time. He doesn’t feel smug — instead, he feels warm inside. He feels warm because Gary trusted him enough to let him do those things to him, in spite of everything that they’ve been through. If this is what love feels like, then he’s glad he chose it in the end.

‘I can’t help but wonder, Gaz . . .’ Rob hazards the question he hasn’t been able to answer yet. He had definitely pictured doing _some_ things tonight, but he hadn’t pictured the bit where they’d be heading back to Gary’s. He didn’t think he would ever deserve going back there. ‘What will we do now? Once we get home, I mean.’

‘I guess we could watch a bit of telly,’ Gary suggests after having to swerve round a group of giggling students. One of the students gives him a brief look of recognition before nearly tripping over a loose brick and losing her footing. By the time the girl’s composed herself, the two celebrities have already gone round a corner and disappeared, forever.

‘ _X Factor_?’ Rob offers hopefully. ‘I like _X Factor_.’

‘ _God_ , same here, Rob. It’s amazing, isn’t it? _Great_ television. I recorded last night’s episode but I haven’t got round to watching it yet if you wanna catch up together?’

‘Are you kiddin’? I’d love to, mate.’

They start talking about the reality show in earnest. It turns out that they both think it’s the best season ever, with Olly Murs and Joe McElderry being their favourites for the crown. Robbie also admits he ‘may have shed a tear’ when John & Edward were eliminated several weeks ago.

‘It’s good, this series, isn’t it?’ Gary agrees. ‘They even had a Take That theme last week. Olly Murs’ version of _Love Ain’t Here Anymore_ was somethin’ else. Gave me chills, that did. I don’t think I’ll ever bother singin’ it meself now! What a show, though. Really makes you see those songs in a different light, doesn’t it?’

‘Jesus, I know,’ Rob nods. He watched the episode with Mark in L.A. last week, and it was the most fun he had watching a reality show for years. There’s something very otherworldly about hearing other people hear your songs on television. ‘Joe McElderry did _Could It Be Magic_ a lot better than _I_ ever could.’

‘It wasn’t _that_ good,’ Gary counters, even though Joe McElderry is by far his favourite. ‘Anyway, we could watch the show in bed if you want.’

‘Like a proper couple?’

‘Like a proper couple,’ Gary reiterates, smiling.

Ten minutes later, they reach Gary’s house. For some reason, it looks a lot more inviting than it did when Rob came here first. Back then, the house was strangely daunting; now, it looks like the sort of home Rob could see himself being very happy in indeed, with all the added perks of being Gary’s lover. He still doesn’t know what being Gary’s boyfriend will be like exactly, but he can’t wait to find out together.

Gary’s voice cuts through the fog of Robbie’s thoughts. ‘Rob, hold these flowers for me for a second, will you . . .’

Holding a large bouquet makes it rather difficult to grab your house keys, so Gary has to hand Rob his bouquet before he drops it by accident. Rob willingly takes over, but not without giving the added gift tag an odd look.

‘Something wrong with the flowers, Rob?’

‘It’s just . . . the gift tag . . . I think I made a bit of a boo-boo, Gaz.’

‘What kind of boo-boo?’

It’s hard to see in the dark, but for some reason Rob turns absolutely scarlet. ‘ _Promise_ me you won’t laugh, Gaz. I bought these flowers in a hurry!’

‘Laugh about what, Rob? What are you talking about?’

Rob figures it’s just better to just show Gary. It’s not easy to make out in the dark, but the tag very clearly says ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’.

They’re still laughing about it by the time they walk into Gary’s living room. 

MONDAY MORNING – DECEMBER 2009 – LONDON

Most mornings, Gary wakes up alone. He’ll drag himself out of bed, take a shower, get dressed and drink his Earl Grey, alone. His mornings have been like that for most of his life, so it doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t think anything’s particularly wrong with it. After all, you can’t miss what you never had — just the things you once had and lost.

After he’s had his tea, Gary usually takes the time to cook up a wholesome breakfast, whether he wants to or not. Recently, he’s fallen into the habit of having either Parmesan cloud eggs – a delicious alternative for scrambled eggs – or ricotta and fruit yoghurt. On busier days he’ll just whip up a quick avocado smoothie.

After breakfast, it’s time to go jogging, Gary’s new favourite pastime. By the time he gets back, the morning paper will already be waiting for him on the doormat. Most days, he’ll skim the pages. On days off, he’ll read the entire thing from cover the cover, skipping the entertainment section. He’s not that interested in what other artists get up to.

It’s a safe, solid morning routine that Gary’s been stuck in for years, but it’s about to be shaken to the core. For when Gary wakes up on Monday morning, he doesn’t do so alone; he does so with Robbie Williams in his arms, blissfully together.

Robbie wakes when Gary does. It’s still dark; six o’clock perhaps. They look at each other for a confused, infinitesimal moment as if they can’t recall how they got there, but then they remember. That comfortable, lovely feeling of loving and being in love warms up their bodies, and they both start grinning like little children. They pull each other closer in a warm, giddy embrace and never let go.

For if they let go, the illusion might fade. They might doze off and wake up again in a world where they’re not together. Or worse, a world where they don’t even know the other exists; a world where, out of all the people in the universe, Gary was given someone else.

But they’re not inside that world. The world Gary inhabits right now is one where he feels more comfortable than he’s ever been. He can smell Rob on him and feel Rob’s hands on his back and feel Rob’s chest hair underneath his own fingertips and it’s the best thing Gary didn’t think would ever happen to him.

It’s a wonderful twist of fate, and yet Gary hasn’t done anything: this is all on Rob. _He_ did this. He allowed it to happen because he was brave enough to stay, at last:

‘I’m really happy you stayed, Rob,’ Gary whispers, even though the words don’t need whispering. They’re all alone. His fingers trace circles on Robbie’s chest, and he’s never felt safer. He feels lightyears removed from the dark days he once went through and mere seconds away from being the happiest he’s ever been, all because he has Robbie’s body to hold. ‘Really, _really_ happy.’

Rob kisses Gary’s hair. He sounds tired but happy. Gary wishes he could see his face in the dark.

‘Me too, Gaz. Best morning _ever_.’

Gary chuckles. He snuggles closer and breathes a content little sigh against Robbie’s chest. ‘Yeah. Best morning ever.’

***

They both doze off into pleasant dreams about love and _X Factor_ (they watched reruns of _X Factor_ in bed last night, which was so bloody fun that they didn’t get round to having sex even if they wanted to), and it’s not until a shamefully late eleven o’clock that they wake again. They haven’t moved a single inch.

‘Mornin’, Gaz,’ Rob whispers when he sees Gary blink against the morning light. By now, the sun has moved towards this side of the house, its light penetrating Gary’s thin bedroom curtains. It’s usually a lot darker when Gary wakes.

Gary sounds a tad disoriented. ‘What time is it?’

‘Eleven, I think,’ Rob says, craning his neck towards Gary’s alarm clock so that he doesn’t have to leave Gary’s arms. ‘Yeah, eleven.’

‘Christ. I’ve usually written about three songs by now,’ Gary groans, stating it like a fact rather than something he would rather be doing. Then he places a soft kiss on Robbie’s chest. And another. He gently moves his hands towards Rob’s abdomen, thinking he’s ready to touch him there already. ‘ _Oh well_ . . .’

‘I guess ‘oversleeping’ _would_ be a nice excuse when anyone asks why you haven’t been in the studio this week, Gaz,’ Rob points out. ‘Much better than “I couldn’t be arsed writing another hit song.”’

‘Maybe. I don’t think the record label would like it very much.’

Rob has to suck in a breath when he feels Gary’s hand reach his tummy. His long fingers blindly trace the outlines of Rob’s swallow tattoos underneath the sheets. Rob unconsciously readjusts himself so Gary’s hands land a little lower. Gary doesn’t mind; still in a sleepy daze, he happily pulls down Rob’s boxers and touches him there as they speak; slowly and lazily, like it’s no more than something to occupy his hands with.

Rob picks up the thread of the conversation. He feels a lot more energised. ‘It’d be one hell of a promo opportunity, though. “Gary Barlow leaves Take That to sleep with Robbie Williams . . . more during the news at six.”’

Gary laughs. Something about the world finding out about their relationship makes him speed up his strokes. He kisses Rob on the mouth, and it feels so impossibly real and wonderful that he nearly forgets what they were talking about.

Eventually, it’s the tips of Rob’s fingers that bring Gary back to Earth. They trail up and down Gary’s naked arms; mirroring Gary’s own slow strokes; reminding him of fucking good it was to be touched by Robbie in the restaurant. He wants to keep those memories to himself, locked away from the world until one day they might be able to share them.

‘Let’s keep us a secret for now, Rob.’

Rob fingers paint goosebumps on Gary’s arms. It shouldn’t be arousing, but it is; every single touch sends chills down Gary’s spine and makes him want _more_ ; more than just the friction of Rob’s cock as he rubs his own hand up and down; more than just Rob’s lips on his temple. 

‘How, though, Gaz? We _are_ famous, after all.’

Gary leans in for another kiss. It leaves him wanting more. ‘Dunno,’ he says. He sounds husky. Willing, but nervous. ‘We could stay indoors for a few days . . .’

Gary’s hands touch such sensitive little spots that the words Rob wanted to say spontaneously leave his mind. He struggles to remember what he wanted to say. The only thing he’s really aware of is Gary’s hands on him and the building, pulsating need to have Gary closer; the careless need to waste their Monday morning on the type of sex they probably shouldn’t be having yet.

Eventually, Rob finds his voice again. He’s still thinking about staying indoors with Gary, and for the first time ever the idea of not leaving the house is one that excites him rather than scares him. Usually, staying indoors means depression; now, it means spending every single second with Gary.

‘Will there be sex, Gaz?’

‘ _Ma—ybe_ . . .’ Gary speeds up his touches, then slows down again when a desperate little gasp escapes Rob’s lips. It’s the burst of confidence he needs. _He’s_ going to be in control this morning, not Rob. Not today. ‘If you’re _good_ , that is, Rob . . .’

‘I think I can do that.’ Rob has to bite his lip when he feels Gary roll on top of him and pin him down with his thighs. It’s not a position Rob’s used to, but fuck it — this is fucking amazing already. ‘I’m not so sure about _you_ , though Gaz. You’re very naughty today . . .’

Gary grins. He dips down to kiss Rob on the mouth. ‘Why don’t we find out, eh?’

Lying on top of Rob like this, Gary’s hit with a surge of confidence he didn’t know he had in him. He wriggles out of his _Star Wars_ boxers. He kisses Rob’s neck and mouth as Robbie wraps his beautifully inked arms around him.

When he’s certain that Rob wants this too, Gary starts rolling his hips. Their cocks touch. For a moment, it’s as if they’re back on the sofa again, with their positions reversed. Like Gary back then, Rob doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He aimlessly moves them up and down the curved shape of Gary’s back, not knowing whether to dig his nails into Gary’s skin or squeeze his arse or do something else. It’s not a position he’s usually stuck in, and it makes Rob feel like a teenager again. It’s both wonderfully exciting and terrifying that Gary is still capable of making him feel this _new_ at everything.

Then Gary stops kissing him. He unceremoniously guides Rob’s hands inside his boxers.

‘Need you inside,’ Gary tells him, like a desperate little hint. He’s hardly aware of the words leaving his mouth. ‘Before I change me mind . . .’

The latter ought to be a sign that Gary isn’t truly ready yet, but Rob doesn’t pick up on it. He doesn’t bother making sure if Gary really wants this. He ought to, but he doesn’t. He assumes Gary knows what he’s doing. He assumes Gary wants to become a part of him like he’s ever been before; to be _his_ , for only one morning. They wanted to wait, and frankly they really fucking _should_ , but why say no when they’re both so desperately willing and trusting?

They continue moving without a single word. From the outside, they’re just moving shapes, outlined by the white sheets that cover them both. There’s nothing to see. It’s as if they’re afraid someone will walk in on them and see what they’re doing.

But underneath those sheets, they’re _desperate_. They want _more_. They finger the places they most want to touch and kiss the places they’re saving for later. They rush things through but also cherish the thought of a second and a third and a fourth time.

They can’t see what the other person is doing, but they don’t _need_ to. They like it like this. They _like_ having the sheets and the pillows and the blankets rubbing up their desperate, naked bodies. They _want_ to see, to watch; to witness their lover’s body as it curves and writhes and sweats, and yet the sheets stay. They constantly pull them back up. It’s titillating: the absence of having pale or tattooed flesh to look at highlights every single touch and smell, from Gary’s stubble against Rob’s neck to Rob’s wet fingers rubbing Gary’s entrance.

The only thing they can look at is each other. They don’t close their eyes or look away this time: they stare into each other’s eyes, wide-eyed and terrified as Rob pushes a finger inside. Gary knew it was coming, and yet nothing could have prepared him for it.

It feels new. Good. Bloody terrifying. Gary vaguely remembers how it was like to be fingered by men, but it was never like this. Not like Rob.

Rob’s good. He twists and arches his fingers inside. He pushes in and out slowly and then speeds up again to the sound of Gary’s moans.

It’s so good that Gary forgets where he is. Frozen, he lets Rob finger-fuck him over and over and over until he’s suddenly lying flat on his back again; legs spread, Robbie on top. He doesn’t feel it happen. Doesn’t see it coming. The only thing he feels is the delicious twinge of pain when Rob’s fingers leave him.

Rob’s staring down at Gary with a look that spells trouble. It’s a look that’s both achingly familiar and terrifying because Gary already knows exactly what it means. For a second, he’s back in his studio again, being touched by a version of Robbie Williams who could never love him. Back then, Rob was looking back at him with the exact same need in his eyes.

‘Condoms?’ This comes from Rob. It’s shorthand for where he can find condoms, a piece of information that Gary has inconveniently deleted from his memory. He can’t remember. It’s hard to concentrate when the only thing he’s consciously aware of is the ghost of Rob’s fingers in him.

Gary tries to imagine what it’ll be like to be filled with Robbie’s cock instead of those fingers, but his mind goes blank. It makes his tummy ache. There’s no way of telling what Rob will feel like until Gary gives him his all, and it makes a strange, overwhelming panic rise up Gary’s body. It’s like he’s about to lose his virginity again and he has no idea if it’ll hurt or it’ll feel good or both. The last time he felt anything like it is when Take That was about to perform at Wembley Stadium for their comeback tour: that terrifying, feverish feeling of having no idea what you’re about to let yourself in for even though you’ve been performing for years.

Rob can see the conflict on Gary’s face. He dips down to kiss him on the mouth, and Gary lets out an anxious breath.

‘We don’t have to if you don’t wanna . . .’

‘No, I want to,’ Gary stammers, sounding uncertain after all. When his eyes flick up at Rob, all his earlier confidence leaves him. He feels dizzy suddenly, not brave or horny or a disastrous mix of both.

For some stupid reason, Gary’s brain decides to question bloody everything, from the handjob to the hickey Gary left on Robbie’s neck. He feels like he’s in a rush he can’t get out of, like he’s hurrying for a performance in a venue he doesn’t want to be at.

Usually, Gary likes being pinned down like this. He _wants_ to have no idea when his lover might flip him over and kiss him. He _wants_ to hear the gasp that leaves his own mouth when he feels an unexpected kiss on his shoulder blades; the caress he didn’t see coming. He _loves_ all that.

But not today. Not this morning, when he’s feeling ridiculously conflicted about whether they’re taking their relationship too far too soon.  

‘Actually . . . I . . . I don’t know . . .’

Gary swallows. He doesn’t know how to say this. He _wants_ to sleep with Rob, but the voice in his mind that’s telling him _not_ to is far louder.

‘I really don’t know about this. _Today_ , that is,’ Gary adds with emphasis. ‘Not in general. Cos, mate, what we were doin’ just now – that was good, that was. Really good.’

Gary doesn’t know what else to say. He’s even started to question Rob giving him head yesterday. Should they really have done that? Should they really have gone there yet? He doesn’t know. He genuinely doesn’t. All he can think of is how disastrous their first time on his sofa turned out to be.

But Rob thinks he understands. He nods. ‘You don’t want to have me inside of you yet after all.’

Gary wishes Rob wouldn’t put it like that, but it’s a perfectly valid explanation of how Gary’s feeling. He doesn’t want to go there yet, and the only excuse Gary can come up with is that he just doesn’t want to do it, like a beautiful love song he doesn’t feel like performing for no other reason that the time isn’t right.

‘Yeah,’ Gary shrugs. ‘I know that’s it’s weird given that we’ve just — and yesterday . . . I don’t want you to think that I’m leading you on or something. I really do want you! But I guess it’s like one of those performances that you’ve been lookin’ forward to all year but then when the time comes you end up bloody dreading it. That’s how I feel right now. And that’s not to say that I don’t look forward to sleeping with you again, cos I _do_ , mate. I just don’t feel ready yet.’

‘No, I get it. I do!’ Rob adds when Gary gives him a scared look. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself. I know that I probably still have to regain your trust after what I did to you last month.’

‘It’s not _that_. It’s just . . . I don’t know, I guess I’m really worried that I’m gonna get things wrong or something.’

‘You didn’t when we cuddled on your couch . . .’

‘I _know_ , but . . .’

Gary sighs. He finds it hard to put his feelings into words.

‘Maybe I just want things to be perfect this time, Rob. _Better_. When I was young and in love with you I always imagined there’d be rose petals and incense and stuff. Candlelight. A king-sized bed in a five-star hotel, that sort of thing. And that’s not to say I don’t enjoy moments like this morning or yesterday cos I do, Rob, I _did_ , but I can’t help but wonder if we’re moving too fast. When we asked each other out I never even dared imagine we’d go _home_ together, let alone touch each other in public like that . . . It’s like I still regret making love to you on me couch.’

Rob swallows. ‘ _Do_ you?’

‘I regret not waiting.’ Gary wishes he could explain himself better, but there’s very little to explain when the overriding thought in his head is that _they shouldn’t do this yet_. ‘I’m really sorry to dump this all on you. I’m usually a lot more cheerful in the morning!’

‘No, I know. You’re right. We _have_ been moving a bit too fast, haven’t we?’ Rob nods. ‘Not just last night or what we did on your couch, but —’

‘Everything,’ Gary agrees. He snuggles a little closer.

‘Yeah. I’ve practically moved in ‘ere now!’

‘Not that I mind,’ Gary points out.

‘But we may have skipped a few steps.’

‘Yeah.’

‘We should probably slow down.’

‘Probably.’

‘I’m not _entirely_ sure about the rose petals, though, Gaz . . .’

Gary lets out a relieved laugh. ‘Knowing you, you’d probably order a swimming pool’s worth.’

‘That doesn’t sound so bad.’ Rob caresses Gary’s hair before dipping down to kiss him on the mouth again. It’s the soft gesture Gary needs to relax: when Rob opens his eyes again, Gary looks a lot calmer. ‘You feel like cuddlin’, Gaz?’

‘Yeah. Let’s cuddle.’

Cuddling it is, meaning that they spend the rest of the morning in bed together. They may not have sex, but it’s the most comfortable position they’ve been in for years. They both needed this moment to ground themselves again.

‘Gaz?’

Gary breathes out a blissful sigh against Robbie’s chest. He pulls Robbie closer, too happily comfortable to utter anything other than a lazy ‘ _Mm?_ ’ (Meaning ‘Yes, Rob?’)

Rob hazards a question he’s had on his mind for some time. He doesn’t think he’s ever asked anyone this question. ‘Have you ever been in love like this before?’

Gary thinks about it. He has had a few relationships, but Robbie Williams was always the One for him. From day one, Rob was the guy whose eye he most wanted to catch. As such, lovers were few. Gary didn’t hook up much, and in the rare moments he _did_ he’d still be looking at Rob from across the room: checking almost, if Rob was looking back at him. Checking if he’d made Rob jealous. But Rob never did look jealous, so eventually Gary just stopped having lovers in general. The piano in his living room became the love of Gary’s life instead.

‘I suppose I never have, really,’ Gary says.

‘So you never —?’ Rob makes a suggestive gesture with his tongue inside his cheek. ‘Back in the day, I mean.’

‘I did, at first, but I never really enjoyed it to be honest. I’d rather just sit at me piano. Which I guess is what I did whilst everyone else was off havin’ fun.’

‘Don’t you regret not doing more back then, though? I know you want to take things slow with _me_ , but surely —?’

‘ _Nah_. I’m too much of a romantic to really appreciate hookin’ up anyway. And believe me, I’ve tried,’ Gary adds. ‘I really have tried.’

‘But you’ve had your fair share,’ Rob prompts, almost as if to make sure Gary didn’t unintentionally miss out on anything.

Gary reaches up to kiss Rob’s neck, tickling him there with his stubble. It elicits a soft moan that sends flutters down Gary’s tummy.

‘I’m here now, aren’t I, Rob?’

Rob chuckles contently. They stop speaking to enjoy the sounds of the morning: the next door neighbour sneezing unintentionally loudly; an airplane flying overhead; loud birds outside Gary’s bedroom window; the sound of a car as it drives past. These might seem like maddening sounds, but almost everything will become bearable when you’re wrapped up in someone else’s arms, breathing in the dizzying scent of their cologne. Over time, Rob will constantly smell Gary on him: on his arms, his chest, on the daunting places where Gary will one day dare to kiss him again. The thought alone is wonderfully delicious.

They pick up the thread of their conversation again.

‘What was your first time like?’ Rob asks Gary quite randomly, like he’s merely asking him about where and when Gary wrote his first love song.

It’s not something Rob has really thought about before (the question sort of just rolled off his tongue, like most things he says), but now that he’s asked the question he can think of nothing else. Was Gary young? Was it messy? Painful? Awkward? Did Gary rush things through or did he wait for the right moment like a hopeless romantic? Jesus, he wishes he knew.

Gary doesn’t answer at first. Similarly, it’s not something he’s thought about a lot either. After all, it’s been ages since he lost his virginity. At his age, it’s not really something you look back on an awful lot, unless you happen to have lost your virginity to the person you end up marrying.

Then Gary poses a counter-question that’s as simple as it is complicated. ‘Do you mean with a boy or a girl?’

‘Just your first time in general, mate.’

Gary blushes. He lazily traces his fingers up and down Rob’s chest as he considers what to tell him and how. He figures he might as well be honest.

‘It was this guy from the record label, it was,’ Gary stammers. ‘RCA. Where we got our first record deal. _Gorgeous_ boy. Used to take care of the paperwork. We met in the studio during a recording session for _Take That & Party _one day and — _God_ , Rob, he was so gorgeous. The most handsome boy you’d ever met. Older, too. Twenty-five, twenty-four maybe. And he just looks at from across the mixing desk or whatever and asks me out. Just like that. I wasn’t even thinkin’ about doin’ anythin’ with anyone at the time, male or female. But then this guy happened, and I thought, d’you know what, I might as well. So we meet up at his place for curry that night and the next thing I know he starts kissing me . . .’ Gary trails off embarrassedly, leaving Rob to fill in the gaps.

‘Any good?’

‘Christ, yes. Not at first, mind. Bit painful.’

Rob takes this to mean that Gary was the one on the receiving end. ‘ _He_ topped?’

‘Yeah.’

Gary leaves it at that. Rob makes a sort of circling gesture with his hands, motioning Gary to get to the juicy details already. Unfortunately, there are none.

‘I don’t know what else you want me to say, Rob!’ Gary adds, looking flustered. ‘It was over quite quickly. Take That went on tour in Europe the week after anyway, so it’s not like we could easily stay in touch what with it being 1893 or whatever. Again, I wish I’d waited! It would probably have been a lot nicer with someone I actually loved.’

‘I think most first times have that in common.’

‘Yours too?’

‘Oh yeah. Wanked off this girl on holiday when I was fifteen and then shagged her. I lasted two minutes. I think I left in the middle of the night then too.’

‘That’s . . . lovely, Rob.’ Gary groans. He shakes his head in an amused manner, uncertain how to react to that delightful piece of over-sharing. He adds in jest, ‘I’m really glad you shared that with me after I poured out me heart earlier. About waitin’ till we have sex and all that. _Really_ glad, mate.’

Gary doesn’t know what else to say, so he just continues shaking his head, wondering why he ever fell in love with someone as bluntly honest as Robbie Williams. Then a single kiss on his forehead makes him remember again.

‘If it helps, Gaz,’ Rob tells Gary very seriously, ‘I really, really wish I’d saved my first time for you.’

Gary cocks his head. He raises a sceptical eyebrow. ‘ _Do_ you?’

Pause. Then Rob scoffs. ‘ _No!_ But I thought it sounded romantic. _C’mere_. . .’

Gary giggles when Rob kisses him for what has to be the twentieth time that morning. He finds Rob rolling on top of him again, and this time it doesn’t freak Gary out. This time, he happily wraps his arms around Rob’s body and kisses him a little closer, even if it’s the only naughty thing they’ll ever do.

‘Works for me, Rob. Works for me . . .’

***

They end up getting out of bed at twelve: a time even their younger, partying selves would be ashamed of. Usually, Gary will have had breakfast, read his morning paper, done his morning run and written three songs by now, but today he doesn’t mind messing up his schedule. Today, he doesn’t mind putting his songs aside. By the time he goes back to bed again, he’ll have enough ideas to last him a  lifetime of songs anyway.

Their morning is perfectly ordinary. They make breakfast together. They drink their tea, together. Everything it is possible to do on a Monday morning they do within inches of each other, desperate to be together as if wanting to make up for the years they spent being apart. They even walk Gary’s dogs together.

It’s the most normal Monday morning Rob has had for years, but possibly the most romantic; whenever he’s not eating or drinking or walking someone else’s dog, he’ll be kissing Gaz. He’ll constantly feel Gary’s fingertips on his arms, transporting him to a world where everything is better and more beautiful.

Rob hasn’t bothered to count the number of kisses they’ve shared so far, but it must be in the hundreds now, with every single kiss tasting and feeling like their electric, desperate first.

For Rob, that feeling is new. He’s used to people’s kisses becoming stale and boring after a while, but not Gary’s. Gary’s kisses feel as wonderful as the last, and his touches just as unpredictable. It’s like Rob conveniently forgets how good Gary is until an intimate morning makes him remember again.

In other words, it’s good, this. It’s everything Rob always needed but didn’t think he wanted.

In the past, Rob’s mornings used to be blurred whirlwinds of neon colours. He’d be so drunk or high that the outside world no longer did anything for him. He wouldn’t even be consciously aware of being awake; he’d just crawl out of a stranger’s bed, disoriented and lost. He’d find himself in dark, foreign cities with his bruises and hickeys as the only souvenirs of a night he’d soon forget.

In comparison, Rob feels positively grounded today. He’s aware of every single stimulus that reaches him, from the smell of Gary’s cologne to the scrambled eggs that Gary makes him. For the first time ever, he doesn’t feel like his mind is separated from his body. He doesn’t feel dissociated from the rest of the world. Rather, he feels like being with Gary has heightened every single sense, pulling him back to the ground so firmly and tightly that he never wants to leave again.

What’s more, Rob genuinely _loves_ everything they do. He loves the kisses and the scrambled eggs and Gary’s dogs and the boring reality show they end up watching. It’s all so ordinary that it ought to be boring, but that’s the beauty of being a popstar: it makes every-day things wonderfully new and exciting. Even love.

***

At two in the afternoon, Rob and Gary are still watching TV. They’re snuggling on the sofa with the curtains drawn. A blanket covers their legs and bare feet. Rob’s wearing Gary’s spare jogging trousers and an oversized hoodie from the previous Take That tour. Gary’s snacking from a bowl of cashews whilst Rob sleepily pets Gary’s dog. A reality show about bed & breakfast owners is on, but the boys aren’t paying it much attention: occasionally, Rob dozes off into a comfortable dream about songs he’s never heard.

Then the phone rings.

The sound of the phone is so loud that Robbie starts awake and nearly falls off the sofa. Startled, the dog leaps off his lap and hides underneath the glass living room table whilst Rob gives Gary a worried look. He was so lost in his dreams that it momentarily slipped his mind that there were other human beings beyond Gary’s apartment.

It’s broken his bubble. Rob feels tense again. Just _hearing_ the phone makes worry rise up his tummy, and he wishes the sound would stop. He wishes it would go away.

Alas: the phone keeps ringing. Gary reluctantly gets up to take the call, but Rob desperately stops him. He clutches Gary’s hand as the dog looks on from his hiding place.

‘Don’t,’ Rob begs him. ‘Please.’

‘It might be important,’ Gary points out.

‘It might _not_ be,’ Rob counters.

‘People usually mail me these days, Rob. Trust me, this is important.’

Gary thinks this gives him the last word. He leaves the sofa and checks the display on his smartphone. It shows the name of Take That’s manager, Jonathan. In other words, Gary was right: the call _is_ important.

‘It’s Jonathan,’ Gary tells Rob, as if that explains everything.

Rob’s brain struggles to recall who Jonathan is and what he means to Gary. Then he remembers. ‘Jonathan “your manager” Jonathan?’

‘Afraid so.’ Gary gives Rob an apologetic smile. ‘Do you mind if I take this? Jon only ever calls if he wants something from me.’

Rob would much prefer it if Gary stayed with him, but he also knows the importance of being kind to your managers. ‘I guess I’ll just stay ‘ere and flick through channels or something. Unless Jonathan wants to talk to _me_?’

Rob makes a fair point. It’s only now that Gary realises he hasn’t spoken to Jonathan or the record label since Robbie left. To them, Robbie left because of his mental health problems, not because of love. They haven’t got a clue what made Take That put the brand new record on hold, just that Robbie Williams had something to do with it.

‘I guess we’ll find out, eh?’ Gary sighs, and he presses the green button on his phone and disappears into a nearby hallway to allow Rob to switch channels in silence.  

Naturally, Rob ends up lowering the sound of the TV. From the sofa, he can more or less pick up the following parts of Gary’s phone call:

‘Hi, Jon. How’re you? Oh, I’m feeling brilliant, mate. Absolutely brilliant . . . We haven’t, no. Me and Dougie did a bit of writing but it wasn’t that serious, I don’t think. We haven’t really had a proper session yet, we haven’t . . . No, I think Jay’s on holiday. Mark _phoned_ you, did he? That’s funny cos I didn’t think he had your phone number . . .’

Here, there follows a long silence. Rob’s almost tricked into thinking Gary has hung up until he hears Gary breathe a desperate sigh in the corridor.

‘No, it’s true, that. No, I haven’t asked him, we were too busy doin’ other things. Just unimportant stuff, Jon. Nothin’ special . . . We’ve been e-mailing each other back and forth but nothing’s really come out of it.’

His phone still glued to his ear, Gary peeks his head around the living room door. By now, Rob’s reached channel 171, a channel entirely dedicated to sports. His eyes flick from the TV to Gary, who looks as though he’s quite bored with his phone call.

‘I _really_ don’t know about that, Jon,’ Gary tells his manager at the other end of the line. He’s been on the phone with him for several minutes now, and his right hand is starting to feel quite cramped. ‘That’s not up to me to decide, that isn’t. If Rob wants to come back then obviously we’ll let him, but like I said, mate, we haven’t discussed it yet.’

Rob’s heart skips a beat. He hasn’t even thought about coming back to the band yet!

Clearly, neither has Gary: ‘No, Jon, I know. I do!’ He rolls his eyes at Rob: a wordless way of telling him that he’s fed up with this phone call and that he’d quite like to hang up now. ‘I get that everyone wants Rob back, but that’s not somethin’ I can decide for him. No, I’m not gonna talk him into it. No. Yes. No, you shouldn’t ask Mark to talk him into it either. Mark will just end up talkin’ his ears off . . .’

Then Gary goes silent. He gives Rob an exasperated look. He doesn’t agree with whatever his manager is saying to him.

‘Yes, Jon, I will _try_. Yes. No. Yes, I’ll tell you if Rob’s made up his mind. Have a nice day. Yes, Jonathan. You too. Bye, Jon.’

By the looks of it, the phone call has finished: Gary removes his phone from his ear and demonstratively presses the red ‘cancel’ button. He looks slightly fed up with whatever his manager was telling him.

Rob asks Gary whether it was a good call even though he knows the answer already.

‘Not at all. That was bloody exhausting, that was,’ Gary sighs as he puts his phone back where he found it, on the living room table. ‘Jon’s a good guy, he is, but when there’s a record label involved he becomes bloody insufferable.’

It’s not hard to surmise what Jonathan was talking about.

‘The record label wants me to come back to the band, don’t they, Gaz?’

‘That’s the jist of if, yeah. They’re pretty desperate for an update.’ Gary sits back down and gives Rob an uncertain smile. He doesn’t want to ruin their perfect morning with a long chat about going back into the studio, but Jonathan seemed pretty adamant that he and Rob talk about it anyway. ‘I know we haven’t really talked about it yet, but we’re gonna have to, I’m afraid. It was gonna come up eventually anyway.’

Rob obediently turns off the telly with the remote control, but not without sighing. He hadn’t really thought about coming back to the band before now. Frankly, the only thing he was consciously concerned about was getting Gary back. That’s it. That’s not to say Take That haven’t crossed Rob’s mind at all, but out of all the things in the world that need fixing, the band isn’t on top of Robbie’s list. Nowhere near it.

‘Do we really need to have this conversation _now_ , Gaz? I was kinda beginnin’ to enjoy not bein’ a pop star again, if I’m honest! I was just going to spend the rest of my life cuddlin’ you.’

Gary makes a solemn face. ‘Same here, Rob, but Jonathan really wants me to talk you into it. You getting’ back to the band, that is. And I _won’t_ , but we do have to discuss eventually.’

There is more Gary would like to add, like the fact that he still has a dozen unfinished Take That songs gathering dust on his laptop and that he would absolutely love to go on tour with Rob, but he’s not going to mention them. This is all on Rob.

Meanwhile, Rob’s still playing with the remote control. He gives it a brief glance as if considering turning the telly back on again, then puts it next to the dog. The dog gives Rob’s hand a quick sniff and lies back down when he’s reaffirmed that Robbie Williams is definitely a trustworthy human being.

‘I don’t know, Gaz,’ Rob starts to say. He scratches the back of his head, unsure where to start explaining that just _thinking_ about going back to Take That absolutely terrifies him. He doesn’t potentially want to burst the happy bubble he’s in with Gary by recording songs again. If he could, he’d stay inside Gary’s house all day. ‘I haven’t really thought about it yet, to be honest. I know that makes me sound like I don’t care about the band, cos I _do_ , but I guess a part of me is just shit scared that me anxiety is gonna play up again. Or that everyone’s secretly really mad at me for leavin’ or something. I don’t want them to hate me because I left them hangin’ for a month.’

Gary cocks his eyebrow. He assumes for a second that Rob is joking. Then he realises. Rob really _is_ scared that everyone’s still mad at him.

‘They don’t _hate_ you, Rob,’ Gary reassures him in a stern but warm manner. ‘Mark doesn’t, remember? _Jay_ doesn’t! Sure, we were all pretty upset when you left and we didn’t really know how to deal with it at first, but we all can’t wait to get the band together again. I still believe this is gonna be the best reunion of the decade, this! And _I_ want you to come back. That should be incentive enough, that. I really, really want you to come back if you feel up for it. And you don’t _look_ like your anxiety will play up again. You look happier than ever.’

Rob can hear what Gary’s saying, but the pesky little demons inside his head are stronger. They keep peppering him with one bad thought after another. For some stupid, irrational reason, he genuinely believes that he’s better off staying away from the band.

‘The record label, then. _They_ won’t be happy that I left,’ Rob points out. It’s as though he’s desperate to find good reasons against re-joining Take That. Again, it’s his anxiety that’s doing it. ‘The people from Polydor probably think I’m a fucking liability now.’

Gary doesn’t speak for a while. He looks into Rob’s worried green eyes for an answer, and it doesn’t take him long to realise that Rob probably thinks his happiness could be taken away from him at any moment. There must always be an equilibrium in happiness and despair, and if Robbie is happy in love then that automatically means he will experience unhappiness somewhere else. Obviously, Rob thinks that place is Take That, or at least someone’s recording studio. It’s like he genuinely believes that he can’t possibly be a happy recording artist _and_ be happy in love as well.

‘Rob. You do realize that you’re allowed to be happy, right?’

‘Yes, but —’

‘And that going back into the studio won’t take that happiness away from you and that we’re all gonna be workin’ really hard to keep it that way?

‘ _Yes_ , but the record label —’

‘Forget the record label, Rob,’ Gary says firmly. ‘I’m not gonna talk you into coming back, all right, but if you do then everything’s gonna be just _fine_ , mate. I promise you that. You won’t have to worry about touring or promo or the record label bein’ mad at you cos they’ll only be thinkin’ about how much money a five-piece Take That album is gonna make them. They won’t give a fuck about what you’ve been up to. And neither will we. _I_ won’t. The only thing I care about is bein’ able to share me life with you.’

‘But I _left_ , Gaz,’ Rob points out. ‘I don’t know how I’m gonna justify that. There’s probably somethin’ in me record contract about this sort of stuff.’

‘Nonsense, Rob. You don’t have to justify anything. At the end of the day, the only thing that matters is your happiness, and if that means you had to take a break before comin’ back then that’s fine, mate. It’s not like we’re gonna tell everyone why you _really_ left anyway.’

Rob looks up at that. ‘We’re not?’

‘Like I said, Rob, I’d rather keep us a secret for now.’

‘Even from the record label?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the guys from the documentary?’

‘Yeah. Unless they’ve filmed us oglin’ each other or something,’ Gary adds, as though it’s a possibility that has only just crossed his mind. ‘Christ, I really hope they haven’t. That’d be bloody awkward, wouldn’t it?’

‘Especially if they filmed us during the charity concert,’ Rob offers insightfully.

‘God, don’t remind me. I kept starin’ at you that night.’

‘And our “Friday football nights” . . .’

Gary turns red at the memory. If he concentrates, he can still bring back to mind the lecture Mark gave him after, about how obvious it was that Gary had been staring at Rob. ‘If the guys from the documentary filmed our football night then we’d _really_ be in trouble.’

‘I know, you couldn’t stop lookin’ at me whilst I was takin’ me clothes off in the locker room!’ Rob jibes.

‘Neither could _you_ , Rob!’ Gary counters, red in the face.

‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Gaz; I definitely wasn’t lookin’ at your perfectly sculpted chest that evening . . .’

They both laugh. Evidently, now is not the right time to discuss record labels, studios or songwriting; rather, now is the time to laugh and love and take the piss because they couldn’t for twenty years. They’ll talk about getting the band back together eventually, but that moment will come when Gary least expects it: at night, and inside his living room.

First, Rob will have to slip back to the deepest of depths before he can realise that going back to Take That will be the easiest and most comfortable thing he’s ever done.

For now, the subject is dropped. They turn the television back on and watch a reality show about two celebrities going to antiques shops to find items to sell at an auction. It isn’t very interesting, and they keep switching channels until Gary dozes off against Rob’s shoulder and Rob has to turn the telly off again. Rob briefly pets the dog before dozing off himself, and the dog gives a pleased little yap that means something along the lines of “if Gary likes you, so do I”.

Together, they nap until the sun goes down.

***

The boys spend the rest of the day continuing to be a picture-perfect couple. They kiss. They cuddle. They kiss some more. In the evening, they go into the kitchen together and cook up the best tikka masala Robbie’s ever had. (Having been taught how to cook by Mark the previous week, Robbie helpfully offers to cut up the chicken.)

After dinner, the lovebirds watch a Victorian drama on TV that Rob ends up falling asleep in. They don’t make love, but they’re so grateful that they can finally spend their evenings together that a lack of sexual intimacy doesn’t matter. Even if holding hands in the single most provocative they end up doing, Rob is glad that Gary’s hands are his to hold.

At eleven, it’s time for bed. Warned by Gary’s desire to take things slow, Rob politely asks Gary if he’s allowed to spend the night with him again. Gary naturally says yes, and after they’ve showered and gotten dressed together they slide into bed.

They spoon. Two nights in, Gary already knows exactly how he likes to be held. Similarly, Rob knows just where to place his hands: around Gary’s belly, where his boyfriend is sensitive and warm. It’s like they’ve been together forever. And in a way, they have: when you spend six years touring the world together, you get to know each other in a way that you don’t get when you work in an office or go to school together.

But they never _truly_ knew each other, not really.  Rob didn’t know that Gary liked antique clocks or chocolate or certain music magazines. Likewise, Gary had no idea that Rob was hurting or that he had a tattoo on his right thigh. Despite Gary’s love for Rob, Rob was still very much a number; just a cog in the Take That machine. Even if their love never worked out, Gary could at least find comfort in the fact that he’d still have a job if Robbie left.

Now, all of that coldness has disappeared. Everywhere they look or touch, there’s life: there’s the rise and fall of Gary’s tummy as he breathes; the sweet-nothings Rob utters against the back of Gary’s head; Gary’s hair, smelling of mint and lavender, and then Rob’s entire _body_ , radiating so much warmth and life that Gary never wants to leave his bed ever again. They’re trivial things they’ve never noticed about each other before, but now they want nothing else. They want to be aware of every single thing the other person does because it’s worlds away from the cold, dark depths they used to be in before they met again.

Before there was Gary, there was only darkness in Robbie’s mind. And before Rob, Gary had no-one, just love songs. But out of all the songs Gary’s ever written, Rob’s the most beautiful one of all, dulling him into sleep until he enters a relaxing dream world that is just as beautiful as the real one. Within seconds of closing his eyes that night, Gary dozes off. In his dream, he and Robbie get married in Holland.

Robbie falls asleep equally as quickly, but the way his brain works means he sleeps less deeply. The sound of a passing car on the road wakes him to a pitch black room, and his first panicked thought is that he can’t remember where he is. Then he feels Gary’s short hair tickle his nose, and he remembers. He’s with Gary. He’s safe. It’s okay.

His second thought is how soft and warm Gary is, like a pillow. Pulling Gary closer, Rob drowsily thinks of all the things they did that day, from the kissing to the cooking to the cuddling to the talks they had in the living room.

Eventually, his mind fixes itself on a particularly good moment before they turned the lights off, when Gary decided to kiss every single tattoo he could see: the letter behind Rob’s neck; the misspelled text on his chest; the swallow tattoos where every single kiss felt like electricity. Or then the memory of earlier that evening, when they watched television and Gary let it slip that this was the happiest he’d ever felt.

At two in the morning, Rob very nearly dozes off again when his mind lands on another memory from that day. He doesn’t know why, but he’s suddenly revisited by the conversation he and Gary had that afternoon, about going back into the studio. It’s meant to be a fairly good memory, but he remembers it poorly. Suddenly, his minds feverishly starts playing fragments of their chat over and over again until the words morph into things they didn’t say.

For no reason other than that anxiety is a fucking bitch in the dark, Gary’s polite words become negative thoughts Rob doesn’t want to have at two in the morning. _Going back into the studio will take all your happiness away. You’re not allowed to be happy. I don’t care about being able to share my life with you._

These thoughts haunt him, suddenly. They no longer hold the meaning Gary had given them, if they still hold any meaning at all. They’re just noise determined to turn Rob’s night into hell.

The voices become as loud as Robbie’s own thoughts, and he desperately tries to tune them out. He shuts his eyes and moves on to a better memory, of Gary kissing him in the living room. Then another memory, of hugging Gary from behind in the kitchen and feeling Gary’s pert arse against his crotch. He imagines sliding his hands into the front of Gary’s trousers and wanking him off.

It doesn’t help. He feels like he’s stuck in a loud, creaky rollercoaster that he can’t get out of, scrambling his brain until he doesn’t know what’s real or fake anymore.

More voices appear. He hears Mark and Jason and Howard, and even Jonathan, Take That’s manager. They start out as vague recordings of things they must once have said to him, but then they become nonsense. Insults. Expletives. They plague Rob’s body and soul until he’s overcome with stomach ache and he suddenly finds himself sitting in Gary’s dining room, alone.

He’s sitting on one of the stools at Gary’s dining table. He can’t remember how he got there. It’s cold. He’s sweating. It’s dark. It’s hard to think. He’s wearing only boxer shorts. He’s too far gone to consider going back up and getting dressed. His brain feels worn out and tangled up.

Rob tells himself it’s okay that he’s here. It’s just like when he eats in his sleep and he suddenly finds himself in his own kitchen, stuffing leftover pizza down his throat.

Except it’s not okay. This is not good. He may feel disoriented and lost, but he still knows he definitely just suffered an anxiety attack that he can’t fucking remember having.

This is bad. It’s as though none of the things Gary told him that afternoon have made an impact on him. None at all. Despite Gary’s kind words, the only thing he can think of is how shit scared he is of going back into the studio and how desperately he wants to tell everyone that he can’t do it. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want to do it.

Just thinking about it makes him feel guilty. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s not _supposed_ to wake up in the middle of the night and be absolutely terrified, not whilst he’s in Gary’s dining room. Not whilst Gary is upstairs. But for some reason his stupid demons have decided to catch up with him anyway.

Rob _thought_ he wanted to get back into the studio and finish the album one day, but his demons are telling him different things. He’s scared, suddenly. He pictures angry managers and disappointed members of Take That. He doesn’t have it in him to picture screaming fans. Whenever he does, all he sees is the disappointed faces when he performed _Bodies_ for the very first time.

It’s like Rob’s returned to being the person he was before he and Gary connected. Before they fell in love. And for what reason? None at all. This is simply how he functions. He doesn’t even need a conscious trigger. His mind just slips back into anxiety whenever it wants to.

Sadly, it’s tremendously difficult to make yourself feel better. Rob knows that he ought to get back upstairs and sleep or smoke or wake Gary up, but he doesn’t. He’s less than a single step away from making himself feel good again, and yet he chooses to remain in the dark. He doesn’t turn the lights back on. He doesn’t get dressed or tell himself to snap out of it. The only thing he’s consciously aware of doing is grabbing Gary’s laptop and flipping it open in front of him.

Why? Because it’s easy. Because it’s what he always does.

The laptop is password protected. It takes Robbie a few tries before he guesses Gary’s password: PATIENCE, in all caps. Once the desktop has finished loading, Rob does what he always does when he’s feeling anxious: he feverishly searches the worldwide web, scanning its endless pages for useless, unrelated titbits of information.

It makes him feel restless. He clicks his mouse over and over. For lack of something to do, he visits Wiki pages of topics he has no interest in, hoping that he might find something that will light a spark in him.

He doesn’t. He just scrolls and clicks and reads without taking anything in.

His search leads him to YouTube. By now, he’s been online for so long that it’s made him feel light in the head. He first watches videos of himself and then ends up on the official Polydor page. He spends about ten minutes reading the comments below a video of his appearance at _Children in Need_. There are ten positive comments for each negative one, but it’s the latter he takes to heart. He actively goes looking for them as if wanting to ascertain that Take That don’t need him back again

_take that are too good for robbie now pmsl_

_i don’t really want robbie back. like others have said take that are a foursome now and robbie has been solo too long to return._

_Keep that bloke out of Take That!!_

_wow . . . robbie is so fat LOL_

_stay a four-piece lads, it’s much better this way!!_

 

It’s a feverish online journey in search of things to anaesthetize his mind with. After a while, Rob can’t even remember what brought him here. The night becomes blurred. In less than half an hour, he’s gone from feeling on top of the world to feeling shit scared. All it takes is one bad thought, and he turns into a laughable parody of himself.

Similarly, it takes just one good thought to get rid of his demons again. The lights flicker on. On the laptop screen in front of him, he sees a series of bad comments about his potential return to Take That; behind it, a couple of metres away, he sees Gary standing in the doorway.

Gary carries a worried expression. He’s put on a hoodie and jogging trousers — a lot more clothes than he was wearing when he got into bed.

‘You weren’t in bed when I woke up,’ Gary whispers. He looks pale. ‘I thought . . .’

Gary doesn’t have to finish his sentence. Rob feels colour rise into his cheeks when he realises with a pang that Gary probably thought he’d left him again. Finding his bed empty must have brought Gary back to a very similar morning two weeks ago, when he woke up to an empty sofa in his recording studio.

‘Jesus, Gaz, I’m _so_ sorry.’ Rob rubs his face with his hands. He shakes his head, ashamed of himself. ‘I’m so fucking sorry.’

‘Never mind that, what are you even doin’ that you didn’t bother wakin’ me up?’ Gary’s voice cracks. He sounds tired. Frustrated. ‘It’s a bit late to watch YouTube videos of yourself . . .’

Gary’s just guessing, but he hits the nail on the head. Rob feels like he’s been caught red-handed at something he can hardly remember doing.

‘Actually, Gaz, I _was_ watching videos of myself.’ Rob flips over the laptop to show Gary what he was looking at. ‘Again . . .’

‘Oh, _mate_ . . .’

It’s hard to make out from this distance, but Gary can tell that Rob was watching his performance at the Royal Albert Hall last month — or rather, he was looking at the comments section below. Gary would have excused anyone else doing it, but not Robbie Williams; not when they had a long conversation about the internet two months ago.

_‘It’s_ really _not the best way to find out what people think of you, reading comments on the internet,’_ Gary had said during one of their writing sessions. Everyone else had gone out to get lunch. _‘It’s like being able to read minds, except everyone’s using internet slang and they’re all deeply unimpressed with you. I wouldn’t recommend it, mate. Trust me.’_

After that lecture, Gary had confessed that he used to read every single news article about himself that he could find, not caring if it made him feel depressed or not. It was the first time Gary had ever told Robbie that he used to be depressed, and it made Rob see Gary in a different light. Gary seemed kinder, suddenly. More relatable. It turned out that Gary Barlow was a lot like Robbie, and likewise Robbie Williams was an awful lot like Gary. In a way, they’d both had their fair share of darkness.

‘In my defence,’ Rob says as Gary sits down at the dining table and gives the laptop an exasperated look, ‘I’ve been readin’ some of the good comments too . . .’

‘What made you do it?’ Gary sounds calmer now. Less frustrated. He wants to get to the bottom of this. The last time Rob looked himself up, it was after he’d had his disastrous performance at _X Factor_ ; in other words, something really bad must have happened if Rob ended up doing it again.

‘Not really sure,’ Rob shrugs, sounding calmer himself. It helps that Gary doesn’t seem angry with him. ‘I woke up an hour ago and I was feelin’ fucking _brilliant_ at first, but then I remembered what you told me about goin’ back into the studio and all that, and I must have had a panic attack or something cos the next thing I know I’m sitting here. Like, at the dining table. In me underwear.’

‘ _My_ underwear,’ Gary interjects to lighten the mood.

Rob looks down at his borrowed Stormtrooper undies. ‘They _are_ quite comfortable, I have to say, Gaz.’

‘I know, that’s why I bought them.’

‘Anyway, so I find meself in your dining room in _your_ underwear, and being who I am I decide to validate all the voices in me head by goin’ online and looking meself up. Needless to say, it didn’t really help that much, and now I feel guilty cos I had a panic attack about Take That inside your house _and_ made you think I’d walked out on you again. I also think I may have tripped over your dog in the dark.’

‘You don’t have to apologise for having a bad moment.’

‘ _Inside_ your _house_ , though,’ Rob stresses.

‘Mate, I know we’ve had two really good days together but I’m not expectin’ you to be cured of all your issues all of a sudden,’ Gary says firmly but warmly. ‘I wasn’t suddenly “cured” of me depression when I went back to Take That either. It took me years to get to this stage, this!’

‘It did?’

‘Yeah. These things take time, mate, and I don’t fucking mind if you get sad or anxious or depressed because I know what that’s like. I know what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night and feel like the house is about to cave in on you. But next time you feel bad about somethin’, I want you to _tell_ me. You don’t have to suffer on your own.’

Then Gary gives Rob a brief kiss on his temple, and it’s enough to make Robbie’s worries melt away. Even the dog joins them in the dining room.

‘I’m sorry if I made you worry, Gaz,’ Rob sighs. ‘Truly. I don’t know what I was thinking. Literally!’

‘No, _I_ should be sorry,’ Gary says. ‘I shouldn’t have forced you into comin’ back to the band earlier.’

‘ _You_ didn’t, Gaz. It’s just that me stupid mind suddenly decided to blow everything up again. I do wanna finish this record _eventually_.’

‘You do?’

‘Probably. Yeah. I want to finish the record.’

‘But it’s fear that’s holding you back,’ Gary surmises.

‘I don’t know if it’s _fear_ , necessarily. There’s “bein’ afraid of jumping out of an airplane” and “bein’ afraid of fuckin’ things up again”, and this is definitely the latter. You know what I mean? It’s not rational. And I _know_ it’s not, but it’s hard to slip out of that state of mind where everything seems fucking awful. Goin’ back in the studio that is, Gaz. I’m not sayin’ bein’ with _you_ is awful.’

‘No, I know. I get it.’

‘To be honest with you, I don’t even know _why_ goin’ back scares me so much because I genuinely enjoyed bein’ a part of Take That. It was good! But anxiety just turns everything into a massive fucking issue, I guess. I find myself simultaneously wanting to come back and not wanting to come back again, ever. I wish I knew where to find the middle ground.’

Gary considers this. Like Rob, he wants to finish the new album, but he doesn’t want to put any pressure on anyone either.

Then an idea comes to him. He remembers how relaxed Robbie was when they were in New York. Things weren’t necessarily better there, but there’s something very magical about the songs they wrote in New York that almost made the band feel like a brand new one.

Why don’t they go back to there, where everything began?

Gary tries to voice his idea as well as he can. He doesn’t want Rob to feel like he’s being forced to come back after all. ‘Look, Rob . . . I know I said I wasn’t goin’ to talk you into anything, and I won’t, all right, but what if we recorded the rest of the album in New York? Instead of doing it _here_ , that is. That might put less pressure on you, that. You seemed happy in New York. And we could just not tell anyone. It’d just be the five of us. Like a brand new start.’

Rob thinks back to September, the month he re-joined Take That. His troubles started early: during his flight to New York, he came up with about fifteen reasons why coming back was the worst idea he’d ever had. All he kept thinking is how Gary had treated him in the nineties.

Then he actually _met_ Gary again, and it was as though all of Rob’s nightmares came true. Gary was cold. He was distant. It felt disorienting. Disassociating, almost. With Gary being even more reserved than he used to be the first time, it was hard to feel welcome.

Things changed for the better slowly. Something in Gary’s demeanour softened. He treated Robbie well. He welcomed Rob back into the band like an old friend. Over the course of three strange, spectacular months, Robbie Williams fell in love with the one man he didn’t actually think he was capable of loving.

What’s more, being in New York was really fucking great. They made good pop. Rob re-connected with his friends. He played football and ate the sort of food he didn’t even know existed. He visited studios that he used to dream of when he was a boy. He spoke to Gary on a rooftop and fell in love with him there and then. If _that_ memory can’t tempt Rob back into the studio again, nothing will.

‘D’you know what, Gaz, New York doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, now that you mention it,’ Rob says. He pauses as if to make sure that what he’s saying isn’t another pile of nonsense he’ll regret saying, but it isn’t. He _means_ this. He genuinely feels more certain about going back into the studio now that Gary’s given him an option. ‘Actually, mate, I think I’m genuinely beginnin’ to feel excited about goin’ back again now! Or maybe I’m just hungry. It’s hard to say sometimes. But I do genuinely like the idea. It could work. Yeah, I reckon it might.’

Gary laughs. ‘So you’re not still scared people are gonna be mad at you?’

‘No! I don’t even know why I was scared in the first place. Honestly, Gaz, I don’t.’ Rob laughs to himself. He feels more and more certain about going back into the studio with each second that passes. It like the terrible anxiety attack he had that night never even happened. ‘D’you reckon the others would be up for it, though, Gaz? New York, I mean.’

‘Are you kidding? They all _love_ New York. If you tell Mark about it now he’ll probably hop on a plane tomorrow! That’s not me sayin’ we should leave immediately, by the way — I wouldn’t mind waitin’ till January or something.’

Rob likes the sound of that. ‘I _think_ I’ve still got a couple of solo things lined up this month, so January sounds all right.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah. January. Cool.’ Then Rob asks a question Gary probably wasn’t expecting. ‘Will we stay at the same hotel this time, though? Together.’

Gary lets out a dirty laugh. ‘If you want to? I could book one of those really expensive ones near Central Park.’

‘A penthouse?’

‘I think we still need to sell a few more albums for that . . .’

‘A suite, then. A moderately expensive one.’

‘Yes.’

‘And we’ll just write and record? Nothing else?’

‘Nothing else. That all right with you?’

Rob nods. He finds Gary’s hand and squeezes it, and he suddenly can’t remember what woke him up anymore. The only thing he can feel is Gary’s love radiating through him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop having anxiety attacks, but he does know one thing: Gary will be here for him if he does. Forever.

‘Yeah. That’s all right with me, Gaz. Let’s go to New York and write the best ever album. Well, not as good as me own solo albums . . . Not that I think me own solo material is better than Take That’s! Well, maybe I do a little bit. But only because of me massive ego.’

Gary’s mouth spreads into a wide, cheesy grin. He’s so pleased to hear Robbie finally agreeing to coming back to Take That that he doesn’t mind the jibe. They kiss again, passionately, and it takes an excited little yap from Gary’s dog to break them up. Tail wagging, the dog is already waiting for them at the doorway of the dining room, where the stairs zigzag up to Gary’s bedroom.

‘I think your dog wants us to head back to bed, Gaz,’ Rob laughs. He makes loud kissy noises at the dog, and the dog responds by wagging his tail even more excitedly. Obviously, the dog would quite like Rob and Gary to continue their romance upstairs.

‘I don’t blame him,’ Gary says. He looks at his dog, then at the antique clock on the wall. ‘It’s nearly three in the morning . . .’

Rob’s eyes automatically flick up at the clock too. Indeed: it’s 2:45, a shamefully late time, even for him.

‘Jesus, Gaz. I hadn’t even noticed. I thought it was still twelve o’clock or something. I’m so sorry. Maybe I’ll save me panic attacks for two in the afternoon next time. That was a joke by the way,’ he adds when Gary doesn’t immediately respond.  

‘No, I got that.’

‘I joke about meself and me own problems all the time,’ Rob stresses, like he assumes Gary hadn’t noticed already. ‘Even the fucking serious stuff.’

‘No, I know. It’s fine. I’m like that too. Part of me wants to do another solo tour just so I can have a little stand-up moment about how me second album only sold twenty-four copies.’

‘You released _two_ solo albums?’

Gary shoots Robbie an angry look.

‘Just kidding! I personally loved _Child_. . .’

Gary laughs out loud. ‘You’re gonna end up on the sofa if you keep talkin’ like that, mate!’

‘Things weren’t so bad when I ended up on your sofa last time, Gaz . . . So we’re good, then? You’re not angry that I had a “moment” inside your dining room?”

‘As long as it doesn’t happen every night I won’t mind. And even if it does then I probably still won’t.’ Gary slowly gets off his tool and picks up his dog from the floor. This makes the dog very excited, and Gary pets the dog’s fur for a few moments before looking Robbie in the eye again. ‘Like I said, just wake me up next time. I don’t mind.’

Rob gets off his stool too, but not without giving Gary an anxious look that doesn’t belong to the jokes they were making a minute ago. Like rain on a summer’s day, Robbie can change faces within a second, going from sad to happy to being anxious again. ‘So just to be clear, Gaz — you don’t think I’m bein’ a fucking handful? You don’t regret bein’ with me?’

‘Rob, _please_. I knew you were a handful from the moment we slept together. Why do you think I took you back in the first place?’

Gary needn’t say more. He gives Rob a flirty look that would make even a sinner turn red, and they head back up the stairs together, back into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the last one, but it promises to be full of domestic fluff and lots of smut so keep your eyes peeled...


	5. Addicted

[Hello **ROBBIE LOVES** **ALIENS** , welcome back.]

  
[Please wait as we’re connecting you to our servers.]

  
[Just one more moment.]

  
[Connected!]

  
[ **ROBBIE LOVES** **ALIENS** joins the chat]

  
**(16:25) ROBBIE LOVES **ALIENS**** **:** HELLO …

**(16:26) ROBBIE LOVES **ALIENS**** **:** HANG ON A SECOND …

  
[ **ROBBIE LOVES** **ALIENS** has changed his screen name into: **Robbie** ]

  
**(16:30) Robbie:** ANYONE HERE YET?  


[ **Jason** joins the chat]  


[ **Howard** joins the chat]

  
**(16:27) Jason:** Hey, Robbie.

**(16:28) Howard:** Hi mate you said you wanted to talk?

**(16:29) Robbie:** I DID … I DO …

**(16:32) Robbie:** FIRST OF ALL I’M FUCKING THRILLED THAT WE’RE HEADING BACK INTO THE STUDIO TOGETHER … I KNOW I KEPT YOU HANGING FOR A REALLY LONG TIME … AND TRUST ME I REALLY WISH I HADN’T … BUT AS YOU KNOW I HAD MY REASONS … REASONS THAT ME AND GARY HAVE MANAGED TO TURN INTO SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL … IN FACT IT’S PROBABLY THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I’VE EVER BEEN A PART OF … BUT I DO NEED YOUR HELP WITH SOMETHING …

**(16:32) Howard:** We’re here for u Rob xx  
**(16:33) Howard:** Unless you want me to give up me vocals on Affirmation in which case you can suck it mate

**(16:34) Robbie:** I DON’T … IT’S GARY RELATED IF THAT’S ALL RIGHT WITH YOU?

**(16:35) Jason:** We’re not about to gossip about him, are we?

**(16:35) Robbie:** WE’RE NOT … UNLESS MY DISCUSSING MY RELATIONSHIP WITH HIM COUNTS AS SUCH … BUT I DON’T THINK IT DOES …

**(16:37) Robbie:** THE THING IS … I WANT TO MAKE OUR NEW YORK TRIP REALLY SPECIAL … ROMANCE THINGS UP A BIT,, BE A GOOD BOYFRIEND TO GAZ … BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW … THE LAST TIME I DID SOMETHING ROMANTIC WAS IN 1989 … ACTUALLY I’M NOT SURE IF I’VE EVER DONE SOMETHING ROMANTIC AT ALL …  
**(16:41) Robbie:** SO WHAT I’M ASKING IS THIS … IF YOU GUYS WENT ON A PROPER DATE WITH SOMEONE THEN WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

**(16:42) Jason:** Robbie – I hope you don’t mind my asking, but is there a particular reason why you want to be more romantic? Is there something that you’d like to celebrate, or…?

**(16:45) Robbie:** NOT REALLY JAY … TO BE HONEST I JUST WANNA SHOW GAZ A GOOD TIME IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN … BUT I WANT IT TO BE EXTRA SPECIAL THIS TIME … SHOW HIM THAT I’M CAPABLE OF BEING MORE THAN JUST THE PERSON I’VE MISTAKENLY PAINTED MYSELF AS … THING IS I DON’T KNOW HOW …

**(16:48) Jason:** Personally I can’t really offer you any insights about Gary in particular (he never talks about what he likes in terms of his love life much – at least not in his conversations with me; Mark might be able to divulge a lot more), but you can’t go wrong with a traditional romantic gesture, can you? Think chocolates, necklaces, etc. I’ve tried both on several occasions and they were received quite well, I think.  
**(16:48) Jason:** Does that help in any way?

**(16:49) Rob:** KIND OF … BUT I ALREADY TRIED FLOWERS ON OUR FIRST DATE AND GARY DIDN’T LIKE THEM VERY MUCH … SORRY JAY …  
 

[ **Mark** joins the chat]  


**(16:50) Mark:** Hello this is Mark here … sorry to interrupt but have you thought about writing Gary a love song? 

**(16:50) Howard:** Bit tacky innit Mark?

**(16:50) Mark:** Why??

**(16:51) Howard:** Would YOU be happy if a FELLOW POPSTAR wrote YOU a love song?

**(16:51) Mark:** Yes?? I think so?

**(16:51) Howard:** WOULD you though?

**(16:53) Jason:** Mark, I **think** what Howard is trying to say is that Robbie being a songwriter for a living would probably make a romantic gesture like writing Gary a love song seem quite uninspired, as it were. Robbie writes already love songs every day, so it wouldn’t be the most original gesture in the world . . . Sorry, Mark. I do agree that it’s a nice idea. Just not on this particular occasion.

**(16:53) Howard:** What he said

**(16:54) Robbie:** YOU HAVE A POINT THERE LADS … IF I WANTED TO WRITE GARY A LOVE SONG I COULD JUST PICK A RANDOM TRACK FROM MY MASSIVE DISCOGRAPHY COULDN’T I … MAYBE NOT ONE OF MY 2006 ONES THOUGH …

**(16:54) Mark:** A painting then! You could paint him a picture!

**(16:54) Howard:** A picture of his willy?

**(16:54) Mark:** No??? Just an innocent picture. Of something nice. Like a self-portrait.

**(16:55) Howard:** What the fuck is Gary gonna do with a self-portrait of Rob?

**(16:56) Mark:** Hang it on a wall??

 

[ **Jason** leaves the chat]  


**(16:57) Robbie:** I APPRECIATE THE HELP LADS … BUT I WAS MORE THINKING ABOUT SOMETHING ROMANTIC TO DO ON THE NIGHT ITSELF … SOMETHING TO GET GARY IN THE MOOD IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN …

**(16:57) Howard:** Just shag him right and he won’t care if it’s romantic!!

**(16:58) Mark:** Howard!!!  
**(16:58) Mark:** Rob’s just trying to ask a perfectly normal question here. Let’s be serious x

**(16:58) Howard:** I don’t see YOU coming up with any good suggestions. And it’s not like I’m wrong Marky x

**(16:58) Mark:** I HAVE come up with good suggestions haven’t I?  
**(16:59) Mark:** OR!! You could serenade Gaz!! With a guitar! At the hotel!

**(17:00) Robbie:** ALREADY TRIED THAT WITH THIS FIT ITALIAN BIRD WHEN I WAS TWENTY … SHE THREATENED TO CALL THE COPS ON ME BECAUSE I’D WOKEN HER UP WITH THIS FUCKING TERRIBLE GUITAR BALLAD AT TWO IN THE MORNING … NEVER AGAIN …  


[Jason Orange joins the chat]  


**(17:01) Jason:** Sorry. I was having some issues with my internet connection. What were we talking about?

**(17:02) Howard:** We were talking about how Robbie is going to fuck Gaz in New York.

**(17:02) Mark:** Don’t put it like that Howard ….. 

**(17:03) Howard:** Oh all right. We were talking about how Robbie is going to fuck Gaz REALLY SLOWLY! AND ROMANTICALLY!! in New York.

**(17:03) Robbie:** ANY SERIOUS SUGGESTIONS JAY?

**(17:06) Jason:** I’d have to think about it… Have you considered phoning up the hotel in New York and asking them to decorate your and Gary’s suite, as it were? I find that if you ask them nicely (and explain the occasion!), they’ll usually decorate the room with candlelight, rose petals etc. for you before you check in. Do keep in mind that you may be charged extra, if that’s something you’re very particular about. But it should not be an issue, I don’t think. And if that fails, you could always do it yourself if you have the time/opportunity.

**(17:08) Robbie:** I DON’T KNOW ABOUT THAT … ROSE PETALS AND CANDLELIGHT I MEAN … GARY DID MENTION CANDLELIGHT AND INCENSE AND STUFF BUT I DON’T KNOW IF HE WAS BEING SERIOUS … AND I’D BE SHIT SCARED OF ACCIDENTALLY SETTING THE HOTEL ON FIRE AND MAKING A LOT OF IMPORTANT PEOPLE VERY ANGRY …

**(17:08) Howard:** Speaking of candles, did I ever mention that one time I tried wax play?  
**(17:10) Howard:** I nearly burnt me pubes off

**(17:10) Mark:** what 

**(17:11) Howard:** But if you think Gary’s into it then by all means try!!

**(17:11) Robbie:** I DON’T THINK THAT’S WHAT JASON MEANT WHEN HE WAS TALKING ABOUT CANDLES HOWARD ...

**(17:12) Jason:** I wasn’t. Either way – has this helped at all, Robbie?

**(17:14) Robbie:** NOT SURE … MAYBE I’M GONNA HAVE TO CONTINUE MY SEARCH ELSEWHERE … GOOGLE “FIRST DATE TIPS FOR INSECURE MEN” … NOT THAT THIS IS OUR FIRST DATE … BUT SOMETHING ABOUT GARY MAKES ME FEEL LIKE IT IS …

**(17:15) Mark:** Bless!  
**(17:15) Mark:** I really wish we could have helped you out some more though . . .

**(17:16) Robbie:** YOU HAVE MARK,, DON’T WORRY … BUT I ALSO NEED TO FIND SOMETHING ROMANTIC THAT SUITS ME AS A PERSON … SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T INVOLVE FLOWERS OR GUITARS OR FREAK ME OUT … PERHAPS A COMBINATION OF ALL YOUR IDEAS WILL DO IT …  
**(17:17)** THANKS ANYWAY THOUGH LADS … I’M REALLY REALLY LUCKY TO HAVE YOU AS MY BANDMATES … I JUST HOPE YOU’RE NOT TOO MAD THAT I TOOK MY TIME BEFORE COMING BACK …

**(17:18) Jason:** Not at all, Robbie.

**(17:19) Howard** : Just a little bit!

**(17:19) Mark:** We’re not mad at you at all! We’ll support you no matter what Rob x   
**(17:19) Mark:** Hang on ….. my phone seems to be ringing ….. could be important ….. brb …..

**(17:23) Robbie:** CHEERS LADS … ANYWAY,, MR. BARLOW IS TELLING ME TO TURN OFF HIS LAPTOP FROM ACROSS THE ROOM … HE DOESN’T KNOW WE’RE HAVING THIS CHAT … HE THINKS I’M GOOGLING WORDS THAT RHYME WITH “SUBLIMINALS” FOR A SONG WE WROTE LAST NIGHT … IT’S A FUCKING TUNE IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF …  
**(17:23) Robbie:** ANYWAY,, I BETTER GO BEFORE GAZ FINDS OUT WHAT I’M UP TO … I GUESS I’LL SEE YOU IN NEW YORK NEXT MONTH?

**(17:24) Jason:** Absolutely, Robbie. This is my cue to leave too, so I’d just like to wish everyone very happy and healthy holidays if we don’t get in touch again before New York. May this Christmas bring you lots of joy and presents …

**(17:24) Robbie:** THANK YOU MATE,, I HOPE SO …

  
[ **Jason** leaves the chat]

  
**(17:25) Howard:** See you, mate. Don’t work too hard!  

**(17:25) Robbie:** WILL DO … YOU TOO HOWARD …

  
[ **Howard** leaves the chat]  


[ **Howard** joins the chat] __  
  


**(17:28) Howard:** And don’t forget to bring lube

  
[ **Howard** leaves the chat]  


[ **Robbie** leaves the chat] __  
  


**(17:38) Mark:** Rob – if I could give you one more tip ….. maybe DON’T do rose petals and candles and stuff? I know Gary probably said he likes them but I always feel guilty for the person who has to clean them up afterwards!!  
**(17:39) Mark:** Also ….. I’m pretty sure there’s a piano in the suite Gary booked ... You might wanna put that into consideration if you know what I mean hehe xxx 

  
**(17:47) Mark:** Wait

  
**(17:47) Mark:** You’ve all gone left haven’t you?  


[ **Mark** leaves the chat]  
  
  
MONDAY – JANUARY 2010 – NEW YORK

New York looks the same, but it feels different. The people are a lot nicer. The streets are cleaner. The tall buildings, more impressive than ever before. Even the coffee is marginally better than the last time they were here, and it’s just one of the many reasons why Robbie Williams looks so blissfully at ease as he walks down the streets of New York.

He’s with Gary, as he has been for the past few weeks. They’re both pushing trollies with their black suitcases on them: three suitcases for Rob and just the one for Gary. By the end of the week, Gary will have to ask Robbie and Mark to loan them their clothes because he didn’t bring enough shirts to last him a week.

Today, it’s overcast. A lost raindrop will occasionally fall down from the clouds, but people here move so fast that the rain won’t hit them.  

Luckily, the boys get spared the worst of the January New York weather: they move into their hotel with their trollies before the raindrops can turn into snow. By the time the boys leave the hotel again, the snow will have stopped again as though the sky cannot bear to flutter down on such an impossibly gorgeous couple.

Inside the hotel, an expensive five-star establishment that a friend of Gary’s suggested for them, a member of staff spots the boys entering the lobby. He politely offers to take over their heavy trollies, leaving the boys’ hands empty for the first time since they left the airport.

Robbie and Gary look at each other shyly. They were never going to hold hands in public, but then Gary’s fingers accidentally brush Rob’s hands and their fingers lock together like two pieces of a puzzle. It makes Gary turn slightly pink, and Rob gives his hand a reassuring squeeze that sends a chill down Gary’s spine.

‘You okay if we hold hands, Gaz?’

Gary nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘Cool.’

Rob plants a quick kiss on Gary’s cheek before they head to the reception desk, where the porter is already waiting for them next to their trollies. The porter nods at the couple once they’ve caught up with him, gives Gary’s light suitcase an appreciative pat, wishes them a good day and walks back to the entrance where two women have just walked in.  

The reception desk is staffed by three women and one young lad, but they all look incredibly busy. One of the receptionists, a tall, dark-skinned woman with a black ponytail and a phone to her ear, catches Gary’s eye and apologetically tells him she’ll be with them in a second before continuing her phone call. Gary’s so glad to be indoors that he doesn’t mind the wait.

With the receptionists being so very busy, Rob and Gary patiently take in their surroundings. It’s a properly posh hotel, this. The floor is made of marble. Fake Grecian pillars rise up to a high, arched ceiling. Two large ballroom staircases meet up on the second floor, where a small balcony overlooks the entire ground floor. Red leather chairs are dotted around the lobby on expensive Persian carpets. On the ceiling, a large chandelier branches out into a hundred different flower-shaped lightbulbs, illuminating the room and its expensive impressionistic paintings in an ethereal yellow light.

Everywhere you look, there’s an exuberant display of riches, from the receptionist’s meticulously tailored suit to the gold-lined fishbowl on the check-in desk. It’s probably the most expensive hotel Rob’s ever been in. Until recently, all that richness and ostentatiousness would probably have made him sick to his stomach.

In the past, Rob might have felt like deliberately trashing his bedroom. Skinny-dipping into the pool. Throwing a television remote through a window. Smoking a spliff at the reception desk. But as Robbie’s in the process of leaving that young, damaged person behind, he doesn’t feel like being like being deliberately bad anymore. He doesn’t feel like purposefully ruining someone else’s day. Now, the only thing he wants to do is ruin the sheets when he makes Gary come on them.

At last, the tall receptionist is free. She gives the boys a friendly smile as she ends her phone call and puts away the receiver. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, sirs. How may I assist you?’

Here, Rob takes an unconscious step away from the reception desk as if to literally distance himself from the obligation of checking in. So far, Gary’s always been the one to get food or order a taxi cab.

Thankfully, Gary gets Rob’s wordless hint and offers to handle the check-in for him. ‘We’d like to check in, please,’ Gary tells the receptionist as much.

‘Certainly, Sir. What’s your name, Sir?’

‘Gary Barlow.’

The receptionist quickly types in Gary’s name on her computer. She scrolls down for a few moments before clicking her mouse.

‘And your address, Sir?’

Gary gives his address. The receptionist checks this with the address given on the check-in form on her computer. She nods; everything seems to be in order.

‘Perfect. So according to our information, that’s five nights in the executive suite, breakfast included. Would that be correct, Sir?’

Gary nods. He’s too concentrated on getting their check-in absolutely correct to notice that Robbie has turned slightly pale at the mention of the words “executive” and “suite”.

‘That seems to be about right, that.’

‘Excellent!’ The receptionist opens her mouth to give Robbie and Gary a long monologue about the ins and outs of the hotel, but then she closes it again when her eyes land on a particular piece of information on her screen. She gives Robbie a brief, questioning look, which Rob responds to by shaking his head as though to stop the receptionist from saying something she shouldn’t. Clearly, they both know something Gary doesn’t. ‘Sadly, I . . . _do_ have to add that your suite isn’t quite _ready_ yet, I’m afraid, Sir . . .’

‘It isn’t?’ Gary’s reaction to their room not being finished yet comes out unintentionally disappointed. He looks at Rob, who seems to have found a particularly interesting bit of ceiling to stare at. ‘Is there something wrong? I was hopin’ we could move in already . . .’

‘Oh, I’m _sure_ it’s _nothing_ to worry about, Sir,’ the receptionist assures her guests. ‘I’m _certain_ your room will be ready within an hour or so. We want our rooms to be at the highest possible standard, you see. _Especially_ for guests in our executive suites,’ she tells Robbie in particular.

‘Right. Okay.’

Feeling like he’s stumbled upon an unexpected change to their itinerary, Gary strains his brain as he tries to come up with something fun to keep them occupied for an hour. Like Robbie, he was hoping to spend the rest of the morning making love in their hotel room.

Then an idea comes to him. He turns to Rob, who tenses when Gary speaks to him as if he had zoned out for a moment.

‘We might as well head to Electric Lady if you’re up for it, Rob?’

Robbie would rather be doing something, but he supposes going back into the studio is better than waiting in the lobby for their room to be finished. Besides, going back into the studio would also mean seeing his bandmates again, whom he hasn’t been in a room with since _Children in Need_.

‘What about our stuff, though, Gaz?’

Gary shrugs. ‘This place has got a locker room, doesn’t it?’ This is directed at the receptionist, who nods.

‘We do, Sir. We can keep your things in a locker for you while you head out,’ the receptionist says. ‘By the time you get back, your suite will most certainly be . . . prepared.’

The receptionist gives Robbie another conspiratorial look. Robbie mouths a thank you at her when Gary isn’t looking.

‘I guess we’ll leave our stuff here for a bit then,’ Gary tells the receptionist before turning to his boyfriend. ‘Unless you mind, that is, mate. We could also stay here if you want.’

‘Nah. Electric Lady sounds good.’

The boys arrange for their suitcases to be brought to a secured locker room. Two minutes later, they’re back on the New York streets. It’s cold. The sky has turned as grey as the skyscrapers that surround them. A snowflake lands on Rob’s mouth, and he unconsciously licks it off with his tongue.

Compared to the warm luxuries of their hotel, it’s positively freezing outside. Gary’s long tailored coat offers absolutely no comfort, and he wishes he’d put on a warm winter jacket rather something he thought was would make him look good.  

Regardless, it’s good to be in New York. Even during what must be his twentieth or even his twentieth visit to the city, it’s hard to explain why Gary likes the city so much. It might be its bright yellow taxi cabs. Or the city streets. Or the super-sized hot dogs that he prides himself on for never having tried. Or Broadway, where he wishes he could one day perform. But what he likes most of all, is the anonymity. The ability to walk around the city without a scarf and sunglasses on. 

For in the midst of this American skyscraper jungle, Take That are so unknown that they might as well not exist at all. In America, Take That are still a brand new act who have to prove themselves every time they walk into a studio together — meaning that Robbie and Gary can hold hands in public and get away with it.

Rob and Gary discuss this on their way to Electric Lady Studios. By now, the snow has started coming down in thick, fluffy bits of white. It reminds Rob of ticker tape at his concerts, and he gets lost into looking up at the sky for a few moments until he poses the question he’s had on his mind since they got here. 

‘Isn’t it weird that we never broke the States, Gaz? Take That, I mean.’

‘I know,’ Gary nods. ‘I was just thinking about that too. I think we broke up before we could really take off properly.’

‘Do you ever wish we had?’

‘Nah. I wasn’t too bothered about it then and I’m not now, really. It good as it is, I think. Most British acts never really break through anyway.’

‘Coldplay has,’ Rob offers insightfully.

‘They’re a lot better than us,’ Gary counters.

‘That’s true.’

They stop at a red light that most people around them end up ignoring. Rob and Gary obediently avoid jaywalking and wait for the light to go green again.

‘And let’s be honest, it’s good to have a place where we can go without being mobbed, isn’t it?’ Gary goes on. ‘Whenever I go into central London I end up being bugged by people wanting me bloody autograph . . . Or worse, a _photo._ It’s like this new thing lately, askin’ for me photograph. I always look bloody awful in them.’

Rob nods. He can relate. Compared to New York, where he hasn’t been spotted by a single fan thus far, walking around in England is a fucking minefield. It’s a miracle they were even able to go out for dinner last month.

‘Jesus, I know,’ Robbie sighs. ‘People askin’ me to sign stuff does me fucking head in. Then again, I suppose it’s better than people back in London lookin’ at you and goin’, “who the fuck is he?” I dread the day, Gaz. I dread the day.’

‘Christ, don’t remind me. I’m pretty sure that’s the exact sentence that went through people’s minds whenever they met me in the late nineties, “Who the fuck is he?”’

Rob hazards the question Gary’s comment has triggered in him. ‘Is that something you used to get a lot of, then? During, _you know_.’ Robbie struggles to find the right words. Eventually, he settles on the “wilderness years”, which actually sums it up rather nicely.

Gary takes his time before answering. As he recollects memories from his so-called wilderness years – the years he spent hidden away from the rest of the world, hardly doing any writing and certainly not doing any singing –, they slowly enter an endless street filled with shops and cars on either side.

Here, the buildings are so tall that you have to crane your neck to be able to look up at them. It’s not an area Gary particularly recognises, but then again he spent the majority of his previous New York trips stuck inside a recording studio. At last, he’s able to take in the city’s concrete beauty, from the zigzagging fire escapes to the bright yellow taxi cabs sticking out like a sore thumb.

Despite the city’s many faults, the street is actually quite beautiful — or perhaps it’s just Robbie’s presence that is making it so.

Finally, Gary speaks. As ever, he doesn’t seem to have any trouble retelling his stories of the difficult time Robbie hinted at. If anything, he tells his story with the sort of self-deprecating humour that often comes with hindsight:

‘People were fucking awful to me during that time, to be honest,’ Gary says, like he’s merely explaining what the weather was like in 1999. ‘It’s like they were avoidin’ me deliberately. I even had to set up a bank account under a different name so the people at the bank wouldn’t make fun of me for bein’ who I was! Sometimes random strangers would just come up to me in the street and remind me how unsuccessful me albums were compared to yours.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Jeez, Gaz. I don’t even know what to say,’ Rob sighs. It’s the first time Gary has ever told him this. He finds it hard to wrap his head around the fact that someone would wittingly be mean to someone just for being a little unsuccessful. ‘I’m tellin’ you, Gaz, I’d never condone that kind of behaviour from one of my fans, ever. I mean, I know I’ve said some really questionable things about you _meself_ , but that’s just low, isn’t it? _I_ don’t go up to that guy off Coldplay tellin’ him I think their latest album is overrated either . . .’

‘To be fair, I think people just wanted someone to make fun of, and I was it. It’s what happens to celebrities all the time. Especially in Britain. People build you up before taking you down again. The press wrote that me music was shit, so that’s what people started believing, really. Over the years, they changed the narrative of my career completely.’

‘That doesn’t make _bullying_ you all right.’

‘I know. I know. But I don’t blame them either, those people. Me music was fucking awful back then. Or, well, the music that me record label pushed me into recording was. It’s not like I really had a say in it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that me second album wasn’t what I wanted it to be. I had something completely different in mind, but then me record label decided to interfere, really. There wasn’t much I could do.’

They head left, where the streets are less busy. The shops that line the roads are mostly crowded with locals, not tourists. There’s not a single camera in sight. And if there were, the cameras would probably all be pointed skywards anyway, not at two British celebrities having a chat about their respective careers.

‘For what it’s worth, _I_ don’t think your solo music is fucking awful. ’ Rob points out when they reach another red light. This time, they stop, look at each other, then shrug and cross the road anyway.

‘You’re just sayin’ that cos you wanna make love to me later, Rob.’

Rob twitches. For a second, he anxiously wonders whether Gary has somehow found out about what he has done to their hotel room.

Did Mark accidentally let the secret slip? Did he find out from someone else? Did Howard open his stupid mouth and tell Gary everything?

Then Rob relaxes. Gary was only joking. Or rather, he was serious about them making love — Gary just doesn’t know what Robbie has done to make their night even more special. Not yet, anyway.

‘That’s not _true_ , Gaz! I mean, I know I joke about your solo stuff a lot, but it’s not _bad_. I like _Forever Love_. Seriously.’

‘Yeah. I remember you sayin’ that,’ Gary says. He brings to mind the e-mail Rob wrote him a couple of weeks ago, in which he told Gary he genuinely loved the song. ‘And d’you know what, I suppose a lot of other people did too, back then. But it still wasn’t enough to stop my career from going where it did. In hindsight, I guess I don’t really mind, though. If those couple of years hadn’t happened I don’t think I’d even _be_ here. I wouldn’t be grateful for anything at all. I’d probably be fucking bitter about not bein’ famous _here_! But I don’t think it’s such a big deal now. I’m absolutely thrilled with what I’ve been given.’

‘Is goin’ solo something you’d ever consider again?’

The question comes too suddenly. Rob should have thought it through.

Taken aback, it takes Gary a couple of seconds to move his mouth into a long, stammered answer that Rob can’t make out. He tries again. He scoffs at the question; wants to spit on it.

‘No.’

Gary manages to utter his ‘no’ very decidedly, but there’s a nervous, questioning tilt at the end of it. He can’t help but wonder. Is it time for another solo album after all? Would his fans be up for it? Would _he_ be? Would he enjoy being on stage without Mark, Howard, and Jason? Would it be the best thing he’s ever done or would he absolutely hate every single second of it?

He doesn’t know. In the daze of brand new love in a beautiful concrete city, it’s hard to tell right from wrong. It’s hard to tell when something is a promising possibility rather than a dream.

Then again — Gary’s with _Robbie Williams_. With Rob, every single touch or word or gesture is warmer and gentler than any touch he’s ever felt. With Rob, even a ridiculous idea like Gary going solo again doesn’t feel so terribly scary after all.

But Gary being Gary, he tries to convince himself otherwise. He doesn’t want to admit that the idea of going solo actually excites him again, so he puts Rob’s question and its infinite possibilities at the back of his mind. He puts it next to all the other bad ideas he’s ever had: ideas for musicals and films and television shows and even birthday projects. He simply doesn’t want to think about it, as intriguingly exciting the prospect might be. Going solo, the first time round, broke him mentally and physically. It _hurt_ him. Just thinking about it gives Gary the chills. 

Gary changes the subject to something less intimidating. They briefly bounce song ideas back and forth before discussing what they’re going to have for tea tonight. Gary says he would quite like to try the local Indian restaurant, but Rob would rather have a really big hotdog, ‘one of those really unhealthy ones.’ Gary jokes that he would rather die, thank you very much.  

Ten minutes later, they finally reach the neighbourhood of the studio. As he’s been here before, Rob immediately recognises this part. It’s a neighbourhood quite different from the one their hotel is located: here, there are regular houses and shops, not skyscrapers. The buildings are a sandstone mix of brown and beige, not the blinding, vibrant colours of Times Square. There are no big brands here, just laundrettes, coffee shops and pizzerias. It’s achingly comforting.  

Annoyingly, Rob decides he has to ruin it all by again bringing up the idea of Gary going solo. He thinks he can picture it already: Gary in a tight suit, performing his songs on his own at the piano.

‘You _sure_ you’d never go solo again?’ Rob asks Gary as they walk past a laundrette on a busy street corner. They’ve been walking in comfortable silence for about five minutes, just taking in the sights and pointing out interesting little things, like a white cat perched on a fire escape. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks, you know! I mean, it _is_ a little bit. But it’s mostly fun. Sometimes.’

Gary rolls his eyes. He averts them to the row of stores up ahead. Miraculously, a record store pops up in the distance and offers a perfect distraction from the conversation Rob’s trying to have with him.

‘Now, what have we got there?’ Gary thinks out loud. ‘I can’t remember _that_ store being here last time . . .’

Keen to leave another conversation about going solo behind, Gary speeds up his step. By the time Rob’s caught up with him, Gary’s already reached the record store’s window frame. It’s filled with old cassettes and records, including a few Gary used to own himself, but also brand new CDs by country artists Gary’s never heard of.

‘Look at that!’ Gary says, more to his reflection in the shop window than to Rob. ‘I used to play these records to _death_ back in the day. Great records, they are. And who’s that artist over there? Looks like a country singer, doesn’t it? Do you listen to country much, Rob?’

‘Gaz, if you’re trying to change the topic then you’re not doin’ a very good job at it.’ Rob gives the records in the shop window a brief look and raises his eyebrows. ‘I mean, country music? Really, Gaz? _Really?_ ’

‘I’m not tryin’ to change the subject!’

‘Yes, you did, you just walked off in the middle of a serious conversation!’

‘I didn’t walk _off_ ,’ Gary argues. ‘And that wasn’t a serious conversation, that wasn’t.’

‘No? So you don’t think your solo career is worth talkin’ about? Cos I think it’s definitely a conversation we should be havin’. Like, seriously. I can even picture it in me head and everything.’

Gary groans.

‘I’m serious, Gaz! We need to talk about this.’

‘Why? Just cos _you’re_ a successful solo artist doesn’t mean _I’d_ be,’ Gary points out. He tries to hide how flattered Rob’s faith in him makes him feel. No-one’s ever told him they had faith in him as a solo artist before — not for about ten years, anyway. ‘Were you not listenin’ when I told you that people didn’t care about me solo stuff in the nineties?’

‘Maybe they didn’t _then_ , but they would _now_ , Gaz,’ Rob says, sounding annoyingly excited about an idea Gary hadn’t even considered until half an hour ago. ‘Take That’s popular enough for it, and you’re kinda handsome, which helps.’

Gary laughs in spite of himself. ‘Cheers, mate. But it’s still a no.’

Despite his best intentions, Gary’s dismissal doesn’t sound particularly convincing. If anything, he sounds positively torn.

‘You _sure_ about that, Gaz?’

Here, Gary averts his eyes to the shop window. He seems suspiciously interested in the display in front of him, which really isn’t all that impressive apart from the rare eighties records in the right-hand corner.

‘Gaz, I absolutely hate meself for havin’ to point this out, but I’ve been datin’ you long enough to know when you’re lyin’. . .’

Gary turns red. He feels like he’s been caught in the act doing something he wasn’t even aware of doing. ‘I’m not _lying_ , necessarily _._ . .’

‘Then what? You know you can just tell me if you think I’ve just come up with the most brilliant idea in the history of ideas ever.’

Gary laughs. It’s hard to express how torn Rob’s suggestions are making him feel. “Brilliant” isn’t a word he’d usually associate with a solo career.

‘I guess I’m just not sure,’ Gary tells Rob. ‘I hadn’t even considered doin’ something on me own again till you brought it up.’

‘But would you consider it?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a sensitive topic, this! I don’t want to end up openin’ a lot of old wounds.’

‘I know. But if all that history and hurt wasn’t there — _would_ you?’

Gary sighs. He has told Rob everything there is to know about his painful, embarrassing solo years, but he never once considered doing it all over again. If he had, he would have told himself he wasn’t worthy of it. That he didn’t deserve it. But clearly, Rob thinks he does. He sees something inside of Gary that Gary hasn’t seen himself, and it’s oddly comforting. It makes Gary feel like he could do anything.

‘D’you know what, I suppose going solo _might_ be something I’d consider _one_ day,’ Gary acquiesces after some careful consideration. ‘But I’d never leave Take That.’

‘No, I know.’

‘And I’d only be doing gigs. Like, private events and stuff. That sort of thing. So nothing major, basically. I wouldn’t want to perform in a big arena on me own, ever.’

‘Yeah, I get that.’

‘And only _after_ we’ve released the next Take That album.’

‘Right.’

‘Cos I wanna go on tour with _you_ first.’

The colour drains from Robbie’s skin. ‘A tour.’

Rob reiterates the word as though it’s the first time he’s ever heard it. As far as he knows, the only other time a tour was ever mentioned was in September, when Mark pretended to be asking Rob about preferred dancers when he was actually trying to find out if Rob fancied Gary. In other words, the sudden mention of a Take That tour is a bit of a bombshell.

‘What do you _mean_ , a tour?’

‘I mean a Take That tour,’ Gary says, as if it needs explaining. ‘With the five of us. I’d be like our recent tours, except _you’d_ be there too.’

Gary says all this as though it’s common knowledge that Take That, as a five-piece, are inevitably going on tour together, like it’s a decision that was made without Rob being there. As such, Rob stays absolutely silent, leaving Gary to believe Rob must have missed out on the chain of e-mails Take That have been sending back and forth.

‘You didn’t read the e-mails Mark sent you with all his ideas for the tour the other day? And Jonathan’s? Our manager? Everyone was really excited about it.’

Rob just shrugs. The only e-mail he can remember reading this week is the NSFW one Howard sent him three days ago. ‘Mark must not have sent them to me cos I’d definitely have remembered receivin’ an e-mail about a _tour,_ Gaz.’

Gary raises a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You sure about that, Rob? Cos you’ve been spending an awful lot of time on me laptop lately.’

This is true (Rob _has_ pretty much claimed Gary’s laptop as his, and nearly poured coffee all over it on three different occasions), but thankfully Rob has a perfectly reasonable and unnecessarily honest excuse for it.

‘To be honest, I’ve mostly been googlin’ ways to get you into me bed this week,’ Robbie says without thinking. ‘Romantic ways, that is, Gaz! Not, like, _weird_ ways. I’m not up to somethin’ creepy or anything. I mean, I _am_ up to somethin’, but it’s gonna be dead romantic and thoughtful and I should probably stop talkin’,’ Rob adds when he sees Gary looking back at him with a mortified look on his face. ‘Yeah. I’ll stop talkin’ now.’

‘That’s probably for the better,’ Gary croaks.

‘Yeah. Fuck.’

Rob privately tells himself off. How could he just have blurted out his plans like that? This was meant to stay a secret, this! Now Gary’s constantly going to wonder what the hell he was talking about. And what’s worse, he’s probably gotten Gary’s hopes up, talking about romance and being thoughtful! This could all turn out to be a disastrous disappointment if the hotel staff don’t do as they were instructed in the two-page e-mail he sent them last week.

They need a distraction from tour talk and romance. Gary stammers that he wants to have a look at the record store and flees inside without another word. Embarrassed, Rob sheepishly follows Gary inside and prays the merchandise is interesting enough to make Gary forget what he just told him.

Thankfully, it is. The CDs make the boys forget about their awkward chat entirely. There are thousands of them, from pop to country to R&B and soundtrack CDs from the nineties that they’ve never heard of. They have a lengthy conversation with the shop owner about the recent, unfortunate demise of CDs, and they’re nearly coaxed into buying a pile of discounted country records.

As if desiring shameful confirmation that Take That are indeed nobodies in this country, they also check the pop section for Take That albums. Unsurprisingly, there are none: the space in between Talk Talk and t.A.T.U, where Take That CDs usually disappear into, is disappointingly empty. Even the shop owner claims he’s never heard of the band, but promises the boys he ‘might look into them later’.

Gary helpfully warn the shop owner that he should probably skip the _Do What U Like video._

***

At two in the evening, the boys finally arrive at Electric Lady Studios, with Gary carrying a small bag of recently purchased CDs in his left hand. The studio is hidden away between a doctor’s office and a shop where they sell foam and sofas, so Rob nearly walks past it, despite having been there six times already.

Mark, Howard and Jason are already there. Excited, Mark hops off his sofa the moment he sees the door open and pulls Rob and Gary into a tight mini group hug whilst muttering incomprehensible nonsense about how glad he is to see them. He ends up knocking his own trilby off his hat in the process that Rob ends up picking up for him. When Rob hands back Mark’s hat, Mark looks strangely flustered.  

Just as pleased, Jay gives Rob a brief man hug and ask him how their flight has been. Meanwhile, Howard slaps Gary on the back and makes a dirty joke even Rob turns red at.

It’s a reunion that lasts only minutes, but it’s enough to make Robbie feel like he’s never been away at all. He can’t even bring back to mind the reasons why he left. The only things he feels is utter _warmth_ and giddiness when he sees Gary, Mark, Howard, and Jay all smiling back at him like this is exactly where he belongs.

Then Howard has to go and ruin it all. He addresses Robbie once they’ve retreated back to the black leather sofas in the corner of the room, where the boys do most of their writing. It’s where the two cameramen from the Take That documentary used to sit to interview them; today, the cameramen haven’t been invited, which is just as well because the next scene would have caused quite a stir on the documentary.

‘So what did Gary think of your _surprise_ then, Rob?’ Howard asks, making Jason tense. Mark audibly gasps. Rob goes very dramatically pale as Gary’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. Rob shakes his head at Howard when Gary isn’t looking, and it becomes immediately, painfully clear that this is something Howard should not have mentioned.

‘What surprise, How?’ Gary asks his mate. His voice sounds suspicious; uncertain. ‘What are you talking about?’

Howard doesn’t answer. His eyes have gone very wide. Gary turns to Mark and Jason, who have both chosen a different carpet or instrument to avert their eyes to. ‘What is he talking about?’

Mark and Jason don’t answer either. They’re trying their hardest not to look Gary in the eye, like they both know something he doesn’t.

It makes Gary feel scared. Worried. ‘Oh, _C’mon_ , guys.’ He glances at Rob, who has gone the same colour of a tomato. ‘ _What_ surprise?’

‘It’s nothing,’ Rob stammers. He gives Gary’s knee a quick squeeze. ‘I’ll tell you when we get to our hotel room. _Which we haven’t been to yet_.’

This last emphasis is aimed at Howard, who mutters an expletive under his breath and scrambles his brain for a subtle excuse why he suddenly decided to bring up a surprise Gary clearly hasn’t been a part of yet.

Unfortunately, Gary’s a second quicker. He’s still staring at Rob, who’s trying suspiciously hard not to look him in the eye.

‘What do you mean, “When we get to our hotel room?” What have you been planning?’

Rob opens his mouth to say something ill-judged that will make things even more awkward, but Mark interjects just in time. He utters his answer as naturally as though he’s been rehearsing it for days. ‘I _think_ what Rob and Howard are talkin’ about is the view from our rooms, Gaz. You won’t believe your eyes!’

‘Oh yeah,’ Jay agrees diplomatically. ‘The view’s amazing.’

‘Definitely,’ Rob adds. ‘I mean, _obviously_ I haven’t been yet, but I googled our suite and the view was the best thing about it. A proper rock star view and everything.’

Howard takes a second to readjust, then effortlessly falls in step with Mark’s story. He turns to Gaz. ‘I won’t tell you what the view’s like, Gaz, but it’s amazing. _Really_ takes you by surprise. We was all really blown away by it the other day. I think you can even see our studio from up there.’

‘So it’s good, then, our hotel?’ asks Gary, who has fallen for the lie hook, line and sinker.

‘Oh yeah. It’s perfect,’ Howard says a little too enthusiastically. When Gary isn’t looking, he imitates wiping his brow at the others.

‘I personally prefer it to the hotel we stayed at last time,’ Jason adds.

‘Me too,’ Mark says. ‘Our last hotel wasn’t that good, was it? I remember bein’ woken up at two in the morning by drunk tourists bangin’ on my door . . . I was so scared that night, I thought they’d come in and rob me! But I slept like a baby last night.’

‘Is the tea any good, though?’ Gary asks. He relaxes into his chair. It’s obvious: Rob hasn’t been planning anything weird after all. ‘Cos that’s kind of a deal breaker, that is.’

‘We’re in America,’ Mark sighs. ‘The tea’s never any good.’

They continue chatting about their hotel, with Rob offering the occasional question like whether the hotel has an indoor pool or what the breakfast is like. Rob mainly offers these questions so he can appear like he’s listening, but his mind is somewhere else. Will Gary love what he’s done to the room? Will they make love on a sea of rose petals on their bed? Will there be candles and incense and perfume, like Rob asked for? Or worse, will Gary absolutely hate their room and ridicule Rob for making such a ridiculous amount of effort for something they’d be doing anyway?

Rob has no way of knowing, but he really, really hopes Gary likes it anyway.  

***

At a quarter to four, the boys’ conversation lands on the happy couple themselves, about how they’re doing and how many dates they’ve been on so far. Proud, Gary tells his mates that they’re doing ‘absolutely brilliantly’ and that Rob’s practically moved in. So far, they’ve been on about seven dates in all. Their last date, one that took them to a musical on the West End, involved an awful lot of kissing in the dark.

It’s interesting to see Gary come to live when answering these questions. In the nineties, he used to hate it when people asked him about his love life in because it involved lying to others and himself, but he loves it now. He’d talk about Robbie all day if he could.

‘It feels like we’ve been together for years,’ Gary says as much after a question from Jay. ‘We just click in every way possible.’

‘And Rob moving in hasn’t been a problem, then?’ Jay asks.

‘Not at all.’ Gary turns to Rob. ‘You’ve even started cookin’, haven’t you?’

Rob gives a proud nod of the head. ‘I made home-made pizza just the other day. It was surprisingly relaxing.’

‘Bit burnt, though,’ Gary adds, tongue-in-cheek.

‘It’s the thought that counts,’ Rob shrugs. ‘But anyway, I’ve been _cookin_ ’! _Me_ , cookin’! I don’t think I’ve ever been this domestic with anyone.’

‘I’m really proud of you, Rob,’ says Mark, who had to teach Robbie what an avocado was only last month. He’s positively beaming. ‘And happy. For both of you. You really deserve it.’

‘Thanks, mate,’ Gary says. He’s beaming too. ‘I don’t think we’d even _be_ here without you, though — you were practically beggin’ me to tell Rob I liked him! Remember how angry you got when I refused to admit me feelings? If it hadn’t been for you I’d still be starin’ at Rob from across the room!’

Mark cringes. ‘ _Oof_ , I know. I thought I had to tell Rob _myself_ at one point. I’m glad you saw sense in the end, though. We all are.’

‘It took you long enough, though, Gaz!’ Robbie jibes. ‘Things would have been a lot easier if you’d told me, I don’t know — _twenty years ago_ or something.’

‘I thought I told you not to bring that up anymore?’ Gary laughs. There’s a naughty glimmer in his eyes. This is an inside joke only the two of them understand.

‘You know I’ll bring it up whenever I can, Gaz.’

‘Trust me, I do.’

They grin at each other. Something unspoken makes Robbie lean forward. He cups Gary’s chin and kisses him in front of their bandmates. It’s just a quick peck, but it’s the first time their friends have ever seen them kiss.

As ever, Howard offers what everyone else is thinking but doesn’t want to say out loud.

‘Would it be really inappropriate if I said that looked a bit saucy, lads?’

Pause. Howard looks at his mates, who are all shaking their heads at him in various states of incredulity.

‘Right. Never mind!’

***

The boys continue working on their sixth studio album. They haven’t been in the studio together since Rob left the band two months ago, so they spend the first fifty minutes trying to remind themselves of what still needs finishing and what does not. Thankfully, Mark has decided to make a list of all the tracks they’ve worked on so far, including the ones that exist only as demos and lyrics in a notebook. As of today, album six consists of seventeen songs in all.

After spending two hours bouncing ideas back and forth, the band retreats to separate rooms. Mark spends most of the afternoon mumbling melodies to himself on the sofa. His notebook, an old and mattered Moleskine that has lyrics dating back to _How The Mighty Fall,_ gets graced with incoherent thoughts about flowerbeds and wasted years.

Meanwhile, Howard disappears into a side room to tinker with an unnamed demo. He likes the song, but there’s something about it that he seems off. He spends the next hour trying to get the melody right.  

Back in the studio downstairs, Jason goes through his friends’ notebooks with a red pen to mark the words he thinks need changing. He’s gotten quite good at it; from years of proof-reading, Jay can pick out a line Mark wrote from miles away. He can pinpoint exactly where Howard joined a song’s creation. His mates all have different voices that beautifully complement each other.

In the main lounge, Gary’s taken ownership of the black Yamaha to work on a song he’ll end up keeping to himself. As for his boyfriend, Rob equally divides his time between bandmates. First, he helps Jay find mistakes in his own messy lyrics, then he heads upstairs to Howard tell him how awesome he is. He even helps Mark pick out a melody for a song he’s been tinkering with for the past two months, solving yet another puzzle of the album. Robbie does all of this with a smile on his face.

Naturally, the bandmate Rob ends up spending the most time with is Gary. In spite of all their laughing and flirting, they get an awful lot of work done: that evening, they finish two songs, including a melting pot of lyrics Rob jotted down in August and never had the courage to share. They’ve ended up calling it _Eight Letters_ , a ballad about the ebbs and flows of being in a band. If you read between the lines, you could easily mistake it for a love song.

At five in the evening, Rob and Gary decide to take a break from writing. They don’t bother telling their bandmates: as if shrouded in a cloak of invisibility, they manage to slip away unseen.

They end up heading to the kitchen. They can’t stop looking at each other. Ghosts of brand new Take That songs still linger in their heads. Their fingers occasionally brush innocent little spots on their bodies. Every time they laugh or talk or even smile at each other, it’s as if they fall in love all over again. Even the echoes of Howard’s voice down the hallway can’t stop Rob from feeling like Gary is the only person in the universe.  

While Rob finds it hard not to squeeze Gary’s hand every time they share a look, the boys deliberately haven’t been intimate since their first ever morning last month. They’ve decided to wait; to keep themselves from touching each other _there_ until they find the right moment in the right place at the right time.

Their first time on Gary’s sofa w _asn’t_ that moment. Neither was Robbie giving himself to Gary in a London restaurant. No — in their minds, today is that moment. New York is the perfect scenery for their first ever time as one; for the first ever time Rob will slip into Gary’s soul and make love to him. Tonight, they’ll finally be the perfect couple they’ve always been destined to be.

In the kitchen, that perfect moment begins.

Gary’s standing at the kitchen counter with his back to Rob. He’s preparing his tea: Yorkshire tea, his favourite. He’s also preparing coffee for Rob, who watches him from a comfortable distance as if to consider whether he wants to help Gaz or do something very different to him. From here, Rob can see every single perfect curve outlined by Gary’s tight t-shirt and jeans, tantalisingly so.

It’s just a simple gesture, but something about seeing Gary’s hands move across the kitchen counter makes Rob want those hands _on him_. He wants to take them in his; to feel Gary’s warm, soft fingers trail sweet-nothings across the tattoos on his skin. He wants to relive the memory of those very hands touching the small of his back when they made love two months ago. He wants to see Gary touch his prick like the keys of a piano.

Even a month after having been together, Rob still needs to get used to having thoughts like these. Sometimes, Rob still has to tell himself it’s okay to think about Gary like that; that it’s okay to want to take off Gary’s jogging jeans and fuck him right here if Gary wants him to. After all, they’re lovers. They’re in love. It’s okay to be in love with Gary. It’s okay that Gary Barlow’s the only person he wants to make love to for the rest of his life.  

Here’s the catch, though: Rob and Gary haven’t made love for several weeks. They desperately want to take things slow and pace themselves, but it’s getting harder and harder to keep their hands to themselves.

Right now, Rob would settle for anything. A messy handjob. A quick shag in the studio. A blowjob in the back of a taxi cab. He knows what’s coming at the hotel and how good it’ll be, but the closer he gets the more he wants it. He’d prefer to have Gary _now_ , right here. Right now.

Robbie moves closer. He doesn’t announce it. He puts his hands on Gary’s hips and gently presses his body against Gary’s back. As he does, Robbie tells – forces – himself to be patient. He reminds himself of what’s awaiting them on the nineteenth floor of their hotel. The only thing he’s going to allow himself is a single touch.

‘I can’t wait to get you alone later, Gaz. Can’t _wait_.’

It’s a wonderfully promising embrace. Gary immediately forgets what he was doing and relaxes into Robbie’s arms. He feels more awake, instantly. He steadies his hands on the kitchen counter and allows Rob’s hands to disappear underneath the rim of his shirt. He unconsciously pushes out his arse; allows his body to brush up against Robbie’s crotch.

It makes Gary feel horny. He bites his lip. He too has to fight the urge to do a lot more than he promised they would. He tries to remind himself how much better their evening will be if they wait.

‘Same here, Rob. I can’t fucking wait for tonight . . .’

‘Yeah?’ Rob moves his lips to Gary’s ear; whispers the words against his earlobe. It sends a tingle from Gary’s neck all the way down his body that makes Gary shiver. ‘Why don’t you show me, eh, Gaz? Right here . . .’

Gary sucks in a breath when he feels Rob’s warm, soft hands slide up his chest. He struggles to let his words come out in the right order: ‘And here I was thinkin’ you wanted to wait till we got to the hotel, Rob . . . You said so yourself . . . you wanted to be good this time . . .’

Rob buries his face into the back of Gary’s head; takes in his scent. ‘Maybe I don’t wanna be a good boy anymore, Gaz. Do _you_?’

‘Jesus, no. No, I don’t . . .’

Gary rubs his arse against Rob’s body, not caring if their bandmates are just a doorway away. He doesn’t care about anything. He doesn’t _want_ to — all he cares about is the kitchen counter underneath his palms and Rob’s crotch pressing up against his thigh.

It makes Gary want to be bent over. It makes him want to feel the cool material of the kitchen counter against his cheek as Robbie takes him.

It’s not something Gary would usually do, but with Robbie everything becomes blurred. With Rob, even words Gary wouldn’t usually say become a standard part of his vocabulary. He utters dirty talk and expletives that would previously have made him red in the face. With Rob, he’d like to be touched and jerked off _right here_.

Gary shows him. He places his hand on Robbie’s own and guides it into the front of his trousers, where he’s hard.

‘This _good_ enough for you, Rob?’

‘God yeah,’ Rob breathes the words, tickling Gary’s ear. He keeps his hands where Gary asked him to touch him, on the shape of Gary’s cock. He doesn’t dare touch him elsewhere. In spite of Rob’s own need and desire, the absence of intimacy has given him an admirable amount of patience; the most he’s ever had for anyone. ‘I feel like we’ve been waiting for this forever . . .’

Gary hums. He wishes Rob could see him smile. ‘Some might say I’ve been waitin’ for twenty years . . . ’

‘Be fuckin’ awkward I turned out to be a massive disappointment later, then.’

‘I doubt you will, Rob.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I ju—’

Gary never gets to finish his sentence. There’s a loud c _reak as_ the door to the kitchen opens. Mark Owen walks in with a serving plate of cookies, then suddenly stops dead in the doorway when he sees the position his bandmates are in. His eyes flick at Gary’s face before landing on Rob’s hand in Gary’s trousers. His cheeks change colour.

‘Oh dear,’ Mark mumbles before turning on his heel as quickly as he arrived and accidentally closing the door behind him with a very loud _SLAM!_ because he had his hands full.

Rob and Gary don’t get the chance to digest what happened. Seconds later, Mark pushes open the door again. It’s ajar; only a thin strip of light suggests that the door is open at all.

‘Sorry about the door,’ Mark whispers through the crack. Rob and Gary can’t see his face, which is just as well because he has gone extremely red. ‘I didn’t mean it to close it like that.’

Rob and Gary both mumble something along the lines of ‘yeah, we figured.’

‘Oh, good!’

For some reason, Mark seems to think this makes it okay to fully push open the door. Rob and Gary separate just in time, with Rob deciding to lean against the wall to make himself look super casual. Unfortunately, he miscalculates the placement of his hand on the wall and nearly falls over. He ends up shoving his hands inside his pockets whilst Gary stares at Mark wide-eyed, too petrified to ask his bandmate to go now thank you very much.

Unfortunately, Mark wrongly assumes he must immediately apologise for walking in on his bandmates. He starts rambling for what feels like an hour. ‘I’m actually really relieved you didn’t get the wrong idea cos I didn’t want you to think I slammed the door cos I was angry or somethin’, you know? Which would be really weird, anyway, cos why would I be angry? I’m not angry. I’m very happy for you, actually. Have I ever mentioned that? I’m really happy that you two feel so comfortable with each other.’

‘You may have mentioned it once or twice,’ Gary mumbles.  

‘Oh. Okay. Good. I’m glad you know that.’

Awkward silence. Mark glances at Rob, who’s telepathically trying to tell him to leave.

‘I should probably go now,’ Mark says.

‘Probably,’ Rob reiterates.

‘Right. Okay. I guess I’ll see you guys later?’

‘Yeah,’ Gary croaks.

Mark wishes the two of them a muttered goodbye before closing the door.

Then he opens it again.

‘I’m really sorry for that, by the way. It won’t happen again. So sorry. Please continue enjoyin’ yourselves. God bless.’

Rob and Gary listen for Mark’s footsteps to fade away. By the time Mark has disappeared down the hallway, Gary’s horniness has completely faded. It has for both of them; when Gary turns to look at Rob, he finds his boyfriend staring back at him with a grin on his face.

Gary’s own lips curl too. He tries to fight back the fit of laughter that’s about to come over him, but it’s no use. It’s already too late. Gary’s laughter erupts and completely takes over his body. He slaps his belly and wheezes so loudly that even the receptionist upstairs can hear it.

Robbie joins him. They both sound hysterical. Thick tears roll down their cheeks. They have to rub their bellies to make the ache go away. Robbie’s even been relegated to the floor, where he’s laughing and crying at the same time. It’s the most fun he’s had for weeks.   

Two minutes later, the laughing comes to its natural end. The wheezes become the occasional chuckle, and the chuckles become hiccups.

Gary wipes a tear from his red cheeks. His shoulders are still shaking in the aftermath of laughing so hysterically. ‘I can’t believe that just happened, can you?’

‘I know!’ Rob exclaims. He’s on the floor still, rubbing his belly and wiping the tears from his eyes. He hasn’t stopped chuckling; any moment now, he might burst out laughing again. ‘That was fucking priceless. I’m gonna have Mark’s expression in me mind’s eye for the rest of my life now, bless ‘im.’

‘Same here, Rob,’ Gary laughs again, in spite his best efforts to hold it in. He feels like he’s _floating_. ‘Mind you, we never did discuss how intimate we were goin’ to be at work, did we? I guess we need to start havin’ rules in place now!’

‘Jesus, I hadn’t even thought of that,’ Rob groans. Then he laughs. ‘It’d be like the nineties all over again.’

‘No more kissing in the studio . . .’

‘No touchin’ during performances,’ Rob adds, amused.

‘No staring.’

‘No squeezin’ me bum when Howard isn’t looking.’

‘No sex jokes in front of everyone.’

‘No more “going to the toilet at the same time”,’ Rob offers, his fingers making inverted commas in the air. ‘Can you imagine what it would have been like back in the day? Nige would have had a fucking field day tryin’ to keep us secret.’

Gary groans. ‘God, he would have, wouldn’t he? He probably would have invented girlfriends for us or somethin’. Like how he used to take two years off Howard’s age to make him more attractive.’

‘That’s assuming he would have found out in the first place.’

‘What do you mean?’

Rob doesn’t answer at first. He makes an awkward movement as though he wants to get up from the floor, but he doesn’t quite manage it; his legs have locked. His back hurts. Gary proffers his hand, and Rob gets to his feet a little unsteadily, like his laughing fit has completely impaired his body.  

‘I should probably start exercisin’ if I wanna go on tour with you guys after all,’ Rob laughs.

‘I thought the idea of goin’ on tour freaked you out?’ Gary asks, referring to that morning when Robbie claimed he couldn’t remember receiving any of their e-mails about tour ideas.

‘ _Everything_ freaks me out, Gaz. I’ll probably be fine if I don’t think about it too much.’

Gary chuckles. He changes the subject to what they were talking about previously. ‘Anyway, what did you mean, “Assuming Nige would have found out in the first place?” You don’t think Nigel would have found out we were together?’

‘Given how much I got away with back in the nineties, definitely not. It’s like he deliberately didn’t want to find out. Well, apart from that one time I tried to sneak this bird into our hotel room and Mark was there and Nigel got very angry. That was fucking awkward.’

Gary groans. ‘Right. Forget I asked. I don’t think I wanna know.’

‘Probably not,’ Rob helpfully agrees.

‘Especially not if it involves hotel rooms.’

‘Who said anything about hotel rooms, Gaz? She started wanking me off in the lobby . . .’

Gary gives Robbie a very judgmental look.

‘I’m just kidding, Gaz! I’ve never done anything naughty with anyone, ever.’

‘Just with me,’ Gary jibes.

‘Just with you.’

They laugh knowingly. Again, they do so as if Gary’s just told an inside joke; the joke of Robbie Williams being more sexually experienced than most. It used to bother Gary tremendously, but he’s learning to live with it now. He’s accepted it. After all, did Robbie not choose _him_ , in the end? Did Robbie not enter a relationship with _him_ in spite of his inert fear of love and commitment?

Robbie could have had anyone he desired and yet he chose _him_ , Gary Barlow. They started off as strangers in September, and now they’re here; two lovers in a healthy, loving relationship with their music as its core. It’s the best feeling in the world.

‘Have I ever mentioned how happy I am that we’re together, Rob?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘But you do _know_ , don’t you?’ Gary clarifies. He fumbles with his hands. He sounds nervous, strangely so. ‘You do know how happy you make me, right?’

‘You seemed pretty happy when I was touchin’ your dick earlier, so yeah. I guess I do.’

Rob’s laughing, but Gary isn’t. He raises his eyebrows at Rob as if to chide him into giving him a more serious answer.  

‘Right. Serious question. Okay.’ Rob swallows. He thinks about his next words. ‘All jokes aside, Gaz, I think you’re definitely a 100% happier person than you were when we met up at that football match a year ago. I mean, look us! We’re, like, the most awesome couple in the world. And I’d personally love to take the credit cos _I’m_ such a good boyfriend, but I think you’ve just gradually become a happier person yourself. You’re a different man now. So to answer your question, I do know how happy I make you because it’s fucking obvious. You’re always glowing and stuff! But of course me above average kissing helps too.’

Gary laughs. It sounds like sunshine. ‘You’re right, that _has_ helped. But you seriously think I’ve changed, then? Like, as a person?’

‘Fuck yeah. But in a good way. Even if you gettin’ up at five each day to do half a marathon does me fucking head in . . .’

‘I don’t do _half_ a marathon,’ Gary points out, laughing.

‘You’re always away for fucking ages, though.’

‘Go back to bed, then!’

‘I can’t, it’s too cold without you there! And I keep thinkin’ about how much hotter you’re gettin’ with all the exercise you do. Have I mentioned you look really good naked lately? Your arms are a work of art.’

‘Cheers, mate. Don’t count on seein’ me naked again anytime soon, though.’ Gary jabs his thumb at the kitchen door, which has not been opened since Mark took his leave ten minutes ago. ‘I don’t think we’re going to get any action while we’re still here!’

‘Jesus, don’t remind me,’ Robbie groans. ‘Our co-workers constantly walking into us shaggin’ probably wouldn’t be good for band morale, would it?’

‘I’m afraid you’re right about that.’

‘Yeah. Best keep our hands to ourselves.’

‘Yeah.’

They say these things quite convincingly, but Robbie can’t help but look at Gary’s mouth. He can’t help but be drawn to it _now_ , even after Mark has so awkwardly walked in on them.

Even _Gary,_ the less brave half of their couple, finds himself thinking about all the ways to get Robbie alone in the studio. Robbie can see the doubt and temptation flicker on Gary’s face, and it’s just enough to spark another fire; a small one, but a fire regardless.

‘I suppose a _little_ touchin’ won’t hurt, though, right?’ Rob suggests as much. He bites his lip; thinks of all the things they could get up to before someone walks in on them again.

Then Rob stops himself. He reminds himself they were supposed to wait. There’s an entire hotel room’s worth of romance and sex waiting for them in the city centre. ‘As long as it’s nothing naughty, that is. I don’t want to unintentionally traumatise Mark Owen. I mean, if I haven’t already. I probably have. There’s that one night when I took a girl into me room and I didn’t realise Mark was there . . .’

‘Do I wanna know, Rob?’

‘Probably not, mate.’

They leave it at that. Gary laughs, and his eyes flutter closed before Rob can dip down to give him a kiss worthy of a love song.

At the other end of the corridor, Jason’s tinkering with a set of lyrics Mark wrote for him. Next to him, on the black leather sofa, Howard’s lost in his own world on his laptop. In a different room, an extremely giddy Mark Owen finally finishes a song he and Rob started in L.A.: _Wonderful World_ , about managing to find the beauty in life in the midst of a sea of darkness. The boys don’t know it yet, but the song will end up closing the second half of the album they’ve been working on.

Their recording process may seem like a disconnected chain, but it works for them. In two hours’ time, the band will meet up again to share what they’ve been working on. Together, they’ll make it work. Together, they’ll make up the wonderfully damaged pieces of Take That, working in perfect, uncomplicated harmony, with Rob and Gary being the glue that keeps them connected.

***

The sun is going down. Snow has started to fall. It’s cold. Little groups of shivering tourists hover in front of shops, where it’s warm. Others line up at the local coffee shops to buy hot chocolate and warm chai lattes. The courageous few brave the snow with smiles on their faces, happy to be alive.

Rob and Gary don’t belong to any of these categories. They’re already inside the toasty, comfortable walls of their five-star hotel, waiting for the lift to come. Only their own snow–covered coats and boots remind them of the weather they left outside. In less than an hour, they’ll be too hot to remember the cold anyway.

A soft _ding_ indicates the arrival of the lift in the lobby. The doors slide open, and out comes a group of young, giggling maids and two flustered businessmen. Gary gives the maids an acknowledging nod before following Rob inside and pressing the button for the nineteenth floor, where their room is. No-one else follows them inside. When the doors close, their only companion is the unimaginative _Muzak_ in the background.

Robbie’s know what’s coming, so he doesn’t talk. He doesn’t look at Gaz. Instead, his eyes dart around the lift to find something to focus on. He finds his distraction quickly: up ahead, there’s a digital screen displaying the floors that the lift rushes past. The higher the number gets, the more nervous Robbie becomes.

It’s the quietest Rob has been since they arrived in New York that morning. It makes Gary feel the same suspicions he did when Howard mentioned the view from their hotel. Something about the way Howard’s eyes kept flicking at Rob was extremely strange, like Howard knew something Gary didn’t. Like they _all_ knew something Gary didn’t.

Could Rob be planning something after all? Are they about to have a wonderfully romantic evening and make love all night? Or worse, has Rob not enjoyed their time together at all and is that why he hasn’t spoken since they entered the lobby five minutes ago?

Gary squeezes Robbie’s hand. ‘You still with us, Rob?’ 

‘Yeah. Course.’ Rob gives Gary a brief smile before averting his eyes back to the display. The number has just turned into a six. He doesn’t say anything else.

‘You sure about that? Cos you haven’t really spoken since we got back to the hotel.’

‘I’m just thinkin’ about that ballad we wrote,’ Rob lies. ‘And, you know, what we did in the kitchen. That was quite enjoyable too, if you know what I mean!’

Gary grins. His suspicions ebb away. ‘Do you mean the bit _before_ or after Mark walked in on us?’

‘After. Definitely after.’

The lift stops suddenly. Two seconds later, the doors slide open on the eighth floor and two members of staff walk in, forcing Gary to swallow the naughty comment he was about to make. As a result, Gary’s mind, too, settles on the songs they wrote that day, not what they got up to together. By the time they left the studio, they’d finished two songs in all, including a ballad that Rob had quietly been working on since late last year.

‘The ballad you said you were thinkin’ about earlier — you mean _Eight Letters_ , right? It’s a good one, that. I like it a lot more than the other song we did.’

More guests and members of staff arrive. The lift being quite small, some guests are forced to wait for the lift to come back. A while later, the lift closes its doors and quietly continues its climb towards the nineteenth floor.

‘Same here, Gaz,’ Rob agrees. He continues to talk about their music freely, happy to have something to distract him from what awaits them in their room. In a lift in Britain, they might have pretended not to know each other. ‘I love that lyric Jay added later, about self-preservation . . . I’m not so sure about me vocals, though. I don’t think the song suits me.’

Gary raises his left eyebrow. ‘Really? I thought you sounded quite good when you were recording it earlier. It’s the best take you did all day, that.’

‘I don’t know about that. It’d probably sound better with _you_ on it.’

Gary politely disagrees. ‘I don’t think we really need another ballad with _my_ vocals on it. I’ve already got too many Take That ballads as is! People will start complaining that it’s the nineties all over again if we’re not careful.’

‘The only reason you have so many ballads is cos you sound so good on them,’ Rob points out. ‘Besides, you haven’t even got a solo song on this record yet, do you? Everybody else does . . .’

‘I’ve got _Don’t Say Goodbye_ , don’t I? You said you liked that one!’

‘I do, but—’

The lift stops. Rob’s words stop inside his throat. His eyes immediately jump to the display again: they’re on floor twelve. Two more people rudely squeeze themselves inside the lift before the doors slide closed. Rob and Gary have to shuffle towards the back of the lift, where a maid is constantly checking her phone. Next to her, a businessman on his way to his penthouse tries to engage his girlfriend in a conversation about the weather. She looks more interested in the maid.

The full lift continues its slow ascent. Rob is beginning to feel an unpleasant stab of nervousness unlike any he’s ever felt.

Seven more floors before they reach their room. Seven more floors before Robbie will find out just happy Gary is with what he’s done. What if Gary doesn’t like it? What if he absolutely _hates_ it? This could be his worst idea ever!

Just thinking about arriving at their room makes Rob’s belly ache. It scares him. He tries to find something to clear his mind with. He tells himself to stop counting the floors and focuses on _Don’t Say Goodbye_ , the song that Gary mentioned. They all love it, but it doesn’t fit with the rest of the album at all.  

Now that the lift seems to be moving without stopping, Rob picks up their conversation where they left it. ‘Regarding _Don’t Say Goodbye_ , Gaz, I do like it a lot, but it’s not gonna make the album, is it? You said so yourself a couple of weeks ago. It’s a bit different.’

‘ _Eh_. I guess I did say that,’ Gary shrugs. ‘Tell you what, though, I’m not looking forward to cutting down the album to twelve tracks in a few months. It’s gonna be _so_ hard.’

_Not as hard as_ you’ll _be when I’m done with you_ , Robbie thinks, but he can’t say it out loud. Instead, Rob flippantly suggests they could release two albums rather than one.

‘That sounds exhausting,’ Gary laughs. ‘Mind you, it’d probably pay for the tour ideas Mark’s come up with. Did you read his e-mail about having a giant robot on tour? _Again_. Sometimes I think he thinks we’re Cirque du Soleil, not a pop band.’

The mention of robots and touring makes one of the maids in the lift look up from her phone. She takes Robbie and Gary in with a quick, curious once-over to ascertain that she’s not missing out on the latest Hollywood gossip, then shrugs. She doesn’t recognise the two Brits with their strange talks of robots and songs, so they must not be important. She continues texting her girlfriend.

Meanwhile, a curious Robbie quizzes Gary about Mark’s most recent e-mail, in which Mark enclosed a long bucket list of things he thought they ought to have on tour: a giant mechanical robot; a merry-go-round; a giant caterpillar (‘like the one from _Alice in Wonderland_ ’, Mark added in a second e-mail, along with a bunch of somewhat-related Emojis); a nineties medley; and a massive solar system made entirely of LED lights.

‘Is that the same e-mail from Mark you mentioned this morning, Gaz? I don’t think Mark even sent me anything . . .’

‘He definitely did.’

‘That’s weird, cos I would definitely have remembered him mentioning a robot . . . You _did_ say robot, right?’

‘I did. He wants a robot, Mark does. As in, this massive bloody prop that’s even bigger than the elephant we got last time. He must think we get everything for free.’  

‘He must do, cos even me royalties from _Angels_ wouldn’t pay for that! I know you’re known for your spectacles but even a _robot_ is taking the fucking piss. What would we even do with it? Like, what purpose would it serve other than bein’ a big waste of money?’

Gary laughs. ‘I know. He’s always the one coming up with these weird ideas, Mark is. You should have seen his wish list for our last tour. It drove me up the bloody wall.’

Rob is about to say that _The Circus_ is arguably the best show that he’s ever seen (on DVD – he didn’t actually attend it, for reasons), but then a loud _ding_ marks their arrival at another floor. Rob’s eyes shoot to the display up ahead, and his heart sinks.

They’ve arrived.

The next few minutes are a blur. Rob’s legs move on their own. They’re suddenly made of jelly.

Gary smiles at him, and Rob blindly follows him through the crowd in the hallway. Beautiful modern paintings line its warm grey walls, but the only thing Robbie can see is the other guests staring back at him. It’s as if they all know exactly what he’s up to tonight, and it scares him tremendously. He can’t tell why. After all, Rob’s been through this thing before. This is not the first time he’s ever taken a lover up to him room and fucked them. He’s not a virgin. He’s not inexperienced. He knows what he’s doing and has the string of former lovers to prove it.

And yet — Robbie’s ridiculously nervous. He feels his legs turn into lead when Gary stops in front of a door with the number 1905 on it: _their_ room. Once Gary opens this door, there’s no turning back. Gary will either love what Rob’s done or hate him for it.

Rob tries to delay the moment. He gives Gary an uncharacteristically nervous smile when Gary removes his keycard from his wallet. ‘You sure you wouldn’t rather check out the rest of the hotel first, Gaz? We could find ourselves a Jacuzzi, if you know what I mean . . .’

Gary looks at the key card in his hand as though he seriously considers putting it back again. Then he makes a face as though he’s just remembered something. ‘That sounds like fun, but me swimmin’ trunks are inside me suitcase.’

‘Open your suitcase, then.’

‘Me suitcase is _in there_.’

Rob frowns. Gary nods at the door.

‘We had our bags brought up here, remember?’

‘Right.’

‘And I don’t like Jacuzzis anyway.’

‘Right . . .’

‘So I’d rather have a look at me room first and have some fun there, if that’s okay with you.’ Gary’s eyes narrow. He watches Rob with the same suspicion he felt before; the vague feeling that Rob’s actually _planned_ something. ‘Unless you don’t _wanna_ to have fun.’

‘No, I do, Gaz! I do!’

There’s nothing left to discuss. Gary’s about to open the door. The key card doesn’t work at first: Gary swipes it at the lock, but the light on the lock flickers red. The door’s still locked. Rob whispers a quiet sigh of relief.

Gary tries again. This time, the light on the lock turns green. Robbie does too. The door opens to a long, straight hallway to the living room beyond, and the first thing Gary sees is a trail of rose petals on the carpet floor.

Gary can’t believe it. His eyes flick at Rob, who’s trying to make himself look very small in the hotel corridor.

‘You _didn’t_.’

Rob doesn’t reply, and Gary doesn’t wait for him to. His heart hammering inside his throat, Gary nervously follows the rose petals that make an imperfect line up ahead, towards the living room area. When Gary finally reaches the end of the path, he stops in his tracks and gasps so loudly that he doesn’t hear Robbie closing the door behind him.

Their suite looks _beautiful._

The red curtains are half-open. It’s warm. The lights are off, but there are candles everywhere, casting a warm, orange glow over everything. Burning incense fills the living room area with the soft, autumnal scent of sandalwood. Another path of red rose petals zigzags all the way from the living room sofa to the bedroom up ahead, where they burst into a sea of red on their king-sized bed.

In front of the sofa, a large window overlooks the illuminated streets of New York behind the half-closed curtains. A large, purple painting on the wall looks down on a large duvet, where soft pastel pillows are perfectly positioned in its corners. In front of that, a fire is burning, making the large rose bouquet on a table look even prettier.

It’s overwhelmingly touching. Everywhere Gary looks, someone’s made an attempt to make their hotel room the most romantic there has ever been. Even the _floors_ look good, with their soft Persian carpets that are perfect for shagging on — and then the chandelier up ahead, shimmering in the glow of the fireplace. It’s _perfect._ Clearly, someone’s thought about this. Someone’s thought about the position of the pillows and the incense. Someone’s thought about the petals and the way they explode on the bed to mirror what Robbie and Gary will hopefully be doing later.

It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for Gaz. It makes him feel an overwhelming sense of pride and gratitude, for he wanted their first time to be exactly like this: this warm, fairy-tale idea of a first time with a life-long lover. He absolutely _loves_ it.

Most of all, though, seeing the room makes Gary feel incredibly horny. It makes him want to make love to Rob _now_ , but also to wait; to tease; to draw out this game of prolonged needing even more. He’d love to take it slow and speed things right up all at the same time.

‘Gary? Gary, please say something . . .’

Gary stops staring at the room. He turns to his boyfriend, who’s been staring at him with a terrified look on his face. To him, the minute it took Gary to take in the room lasted as long as a lifetime.

Even now, with Gary looking at him so strangely, Rob has no idea how Gary will react. He has no idea whether Gary will love or hate what he’s done. Ever since he came up with the idea of having their room decorated, he’s felt only fear, like he’s about to perform a brand new song and he has no idea how the audience will respond.

Thankfully, Gary responds admirably.

‘I can’t _believe_ you did that,’ Gary says. Robbie tenses. His eyes flick at the various romantic items in the room, terrified that there’s something Gary doesn’t like.

‘Do you mean that in a chuffed “I can’t believe you did something so awesome” kind of way or in an awkward “I really fucking hate this and wish you weren’t me boyfriend” kind of way? Cos gettin’ our room to look like this wasn’t cheap, if you know what I mean . . .’

Gary doesn’t say anything. He just cups Rob’s face and kisses his mouth so _softly_ that he’d almost be accused of never having kissed Rob at all.

‘I _love_ it, Rob,’ Gary says, his mouth inches away from Rob’s. His green eyes have glazed over with something dreamy, like he’s watching the most beautiful blanket of stars right in front of him. ‘It’s gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.’

Rob’s face lights up too. His mouth mirrors Gary’s grin. ‘Really? You don’t think it’s too much?’

‘Never.’

Gary kisses Rob again, and this time it’s less soft. It’s rough; it’s hot. It’s like the fire, burning and blistering in the fireplace behind them. Every single kiss they’ve ever shared pales in comparison.  

The temperature makes it hard to think. Within seconds, they lose themselves in the moment. Gary inhales sharply when he tastes Rob’s tongue on his own. The scent of incense rushes to his head. He feels himself grow hotter and hotter when Rob slips his fingers underneath the rim of his trousers, teasing him there.

Instantly, Gary wants more. He wants the thrill and the passion and everything in between, and yet he wants nothing at all. He wants to wait, still. He wants to keep Robbie guessing and _wanting_ till he’ll fuck Gary so desperately that they’ll both see stars.

The thought alone makes Gary desperately horny. He wants to make Rob wait for as long as he dares. Make him _beg._ It’s not what Gary’s usually like, but fuck it — he wants to be the biggest tease the world has ever seen.

Gary speaks through their kisses. He sounds aroused; he’s teasing. It’s obvious in every single syllable his wet, red mouth utters.

‘Why don’t you get ready in here while I take a shower, Rob?’

Rob groans. It turns into a moan when Gary bites his lip so hard that it draws blood. It’s good. It’s nice. It’s a side of Gary he hadn’t seen yet.

‘And what will _I_ do, Gaz? _Hmm_?’

Gary grins. He lifts his chin to kiss Rob again before moving on to Rob’s neck; his jaw; his ear. He kisses every exposed inch of skin he sees, including the tattoo of a cursive letter “B” just below Robbie’s ear. It’s a sensitive spot. He knows that now.

‘You could do what you always do, Rob . . .’

‘ _Yeah_? And what would that be, Gaz?’

Gary whispers his answer. It’s a terribly naughty comment coming from Gary, and he turns red at it himself. It takes all his nerve to keep up his courage; to keep talking like his Robbie’s gratuitous sexuality has rubbed off on him.

It has.

‘Would that work out for you, Mr. Williams?’

Rob swallows. He licks his lips. He can see what Gary’s doing. He can see what he’s trying. This is Gary being the fucking _tease_ Rob never thought he’d be. This is Gary, completely able to be his sexual, needy self because Rob allows him to. This is the two of them, finally reaching their gorgeous, sexual potential.

‘Yeah. Yeah, that would work out for me.’

‘Brilliant, mate. Absolutely brilliant . . .’

They kiss again. It’s short this time; Rob can relish the kiss for only three more seconds before Gary grins and turns towards the bathroom, where the petals stop and the foreplay begins — slowly and romantically, as it always should have been.

The brief glimpse of Gary taking his shirt off is the last thing Robbie sees.

***

Not all first times have to be perfect. Rob and Gary’s wasn’t; when they first connected on a London sofa two months ago, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. It was disastrous. They didn’t think their actions through. As a result, everything changed. Robbie slipped back into a deep, stifling depression. Gary became angry and bitter and treated his bandmates like dirt.

In comparison, today is a dream. The songs are good. The boys are happy and friendly. In comparison to the old sofa where they first fucked, everything is warmer. The furniture is soft. The room smells of incense and roses, not of recording equipment. They’re all alone, unlike when Robbie went down on Gary in a London restaurant. In other words, today is everything their first time should always have been and more.

Gary’s teasing has made things even better. Rob’s been waiting in the living room area for ten minutes or hours, uncertain whether to keep his clothes on or ask Gary to do it for him.

Eventually, Rob decides to do nothing at all. Mesmerised by the calming sounds of the shower in the background, he patiently waits for Gary in the living room, wondering what Gary’s hands are doing to himself. He envisions Gary’s wet hands following the curves of his own slick body. He imagines his long fingers touching sensitive little spots even the water can’t reach.

In the shower, Gary might tease himself. He might pump his hand up and down and stop when the pressure starts to build; edge himself right before he comes. He’ll save that delicious, overwhelming climax for when he’s with Rob.

With each second that passes, Robbie becomes more and more nervous, for he has no idea what’s about to happen. He has no idea how he'll feel when Gary leaves the bathroom or kisses him or touches him _there_ , and it’s perhaps the most scared he's ever been. How can it be that _he_ of all people feels so fucking nervous about shagging someone? He’s Robbie Williams! He doesn’t get nervous!

But Rob _does_ feel nervous. He doesn’t know what’s caused it. Or maybe he does. Of _course_ he does; it's all because of Gaz. It's because Gary Barlow is the best, most suitable lover he's ever had, and also the most handsome. For when Gary leaves the shower and closes the bathroom door behind him, Rob’s breath stops in his throat.

‘Wow.’

Needless to say, Gary looks _good_. Bloody good. His wet skin is flushed. His hair is dry but messy. Drops of water run down the curves of his body, perfectly framed by the virginal whites of the towel around his waist.

It’s the only thing Gary’s wearing. Rob can’t stop staring. _He’s_ wearing a lot more: a white sleeveless shirt and tight jogging trousers. In comparison, Gary’s practically naked.

‘Fucking hell, Gaz, I don’t even know what to say.’

Despite having seen Gary naked before, Rob doesn’t know where to look.

Gary’s cheeks turn red at the attention. He looks down at his own body; both smug and embarrassed to look this good. He’s worked out for this. ‘How’s this for an outfit, then, eh?’

‘Fucking brilliant, mate,’ Rob whispers. He shakes his head; can’t believe his lover looks this good. ‘You should wear that on tour . . .’

Gary grins. He licks his lips when he can see Rob giving him a once-over. ‘Some audiences might complain.’

Robbie grins. He approaches Gary slowly and places both hands on his hips, marking them as his.

Robbie takes his time to take in what he sees in front of him. He _loves_ what his own hands look like on Gary’s skin; so inked and tanned. So _small_ , but perfectly capable of rendering the skin there so much redder than it ever was.

Like Gary, Robbie appreciates how different their bodies are: how marked Rob’s arms and hands are compared to Gary’s naked skin. How buff Gary is compared to him. And it’s not that Rob’s body is in any way less good — it’s just that it looks different, is all. Rob’s chest is hairy and covered in tattoos. Gary’s is hairless and bare. Where there are suggestive swallows inked on Robbie’s skin, there’s a flat stomach on Gary’s.

Rob can’t help but want to touch everything. He moves his hands higher, towards Gary’s chest. He places his hands there, fingers splayed. He loves this part of Gaz. He loves how _strong_ Gary is there, like all the training has been just for this; just for this one moment of Rob taking stock of every single naked inch he wants to kiss.

The glow of the candlelight flickers on Gary’s stomach. It tempts Robbie to move his hands lower again. He uses only his fingers this time, moving all the way down the happy trail that disappears into Gary’s towel, where he’s hard. They both are.

‘I can’t wait to get you naked, Gaz.’ Rob hooks the tips of his fingers underneath the rim of Gary’s towel as if considering taking it off of him already. He wants to. Needs to. ‘Can’t fucking wait . . .’

‘Yeah?’

Gary grins when he lifts his chin to kiss Robbie’s mouth again. Even though he’s half-naked and Robbie’s not, he feels in control this time. Powerful. He could let Rob wait even longer if he wished, but he doesn’t. He won’t.

He guides Rob’s hands deeper into his towel, and the thing suddenly slips off his body onto the floor, exposing the rest of him. Gary doesn’t even flinch.

‘Why don’t we start now, eh?’

Rob only gets a two-second glance at Gary’s cock before he’s kissed again, hard. He feels large hands tug at the shirt on his back. Within seconds, Gary manages to take it off of him. The piece of clothing lands in a sad, sorry mess on the floor next to Robbie’s socks. His jogging trousers. His boxers. Everything goes.

They kiss. They touch. They’re both naked.

Rob wants to shepherd Gary into their candlelit bedroom, but Gary’s got other plans. He grabs Rob’s tattooed hands and guides him further into the massive living room, where there are candles and roses everywhere but not a single place to fuck.

‘Where are you takin’ me, Gaz?’ Rob casts a nervous look at the bedroom, getting smaller and smaller in the background. ‘Gaz, _the bedroom_ — _Gaz_. . .’

Gary isn’t listening. He keeps walking, making Robbie wonder if they’re going to have sex on the floor and Gary’s really into that sort of thing.

Then Rob realises. Gary’s following a second path of rose petals, branching out not to the _bedroom_ but to a single white piano in the middle of the room. Rob hadn’t even noticed it.

But Gary has. He always does.

His hand still in Rob’s, Gary slowly guides his boyfriend towards the piano in the living room. On it, a single fake red rose is displayed in a thin white vase. It’s surrounded by rose petals that will no doubt end up on the floor.

Seeing the piano makes Rob feel excited inside. He can picture it already: Gary, with his legs wrapped around his waist — the vase on the piano, toppling over along with the rose inside it — Gary’s knuckles, as white as the piano itself as he holds on to its edge for dear life.

It’s a scenario Rob had never even dreamed of happening, but now that he has he wants nothing more.

Rob motions at the top of the piano with his free hand. ‘Here, Gaz?’ he asks, just to make sure. ‘Like, _here_ here?’

Gary smiles. He licks his lips. ‘Where _else_ , Rob?’

Robbie takes that as a yes. It’s as though a light is switched on inside of them when they kiss again. They’re needier, suddenly. Their hands are everywhere. Gary’s nails scrape the small of Robbie’s back as he’d pushed, arse-first, against the piano.

It’s cold. Gary wants more. He mumbles something needy into Robbie’s ear. Seconds later, Robbie easily lifts Gary onto the piano and spreads his legs with such force that Gary will have bruises there for the rest of the week.

Gary doesn’t mind. He likes the potential of finger-shaped bruises. He likes the way Robbie _looks_ at him; the way they’re suddenly on the same level because Gary’s sat on the piano, legs open wide. It’s not a romantic position at all, but the room makes it so. It turns their tryst into a love affair that they’ve waited two decades for.

It’s a daunting thought, suddenly. They’re closer than ever, kissing and touching and putting their fingers in funny little places, but there’s one thing they haven’t done yet. There’s one thing they still need to do.

They haven’t been inside of each other yet.

It makes Gary stop what he’s doing. He feels weirdly sick all of a sudden, and Rob stops too. He thinks he can see what Gary’s thinking in those nervous green eyes of his.

‘You okay, Gaz? You look kinda nervous, if you don’t mind me sayin’.’

It’s an oddly soft thing to be telling someone with their legs wrapped around your waist. For some reason, something about being so _close_ and so _desperate_ elicits the most personal conversation they could possibly be having.

Still: Gary pretends he doesn’t know what Robbie means. He gives Robbie a sheepish smile. ‘Why would I be nervous, Rob? I’m not nervous. I don’t even get nervous about performing in front of an audience,’ he adds in an attempt to sound casual. He doesn’t really manage it.

‘This is a bit different than performing _Back For Good_ for the millionth time,’ Robbie points out. He does so softly. His eyes are devoid of the fire they reflected earlier. ‘You think _I’m_ not bloody shittin’ meself here? Cos I am, Gaz. Trust me. I’m nervous as fuck. Just cos I’m _me_ and you’re _you_ doesn’t mean you have to pretend this isn’t the scariest thing we’ve ever done. Cos it is. It always is.’

Gary says nothing. He casts down his eyes, but seeing himself without clothes on makes him feel even more nervous. Instead, he stares up at the ceiling and tries to utter the words he doesn’t know how to say. ‘Yeah. You’re right, Rob. I’m nervous. Fucking nervous.’

‘Why?’

Gary sighs. He tries to look Robbie in the eye again. ‘I don’t know. I guess . . . I guess it’s because we’ve been in a relationship for nearly a month and we still haven’t —’ Gary doesn’t know how to say the word. It’s too embarrassing. ‘You know. Used _condoms_. And I know that we both made that decision and I’m all right with that, I am, but . . .’

‘It scares you.’

‘Yeah. I can’t remember the last time I had a moment like that with someone. Probably last decade or something. What if I’ve become bloody awful at it or something?’

Rob makes a face as though he’s seriously considering this. Then he shrugs. As per usual, his answer is adorably blunt. ‘I do get where you’re coming from, Gaz, but you’ll mostly be lyin’ flat on your back anyway so I don’t think there’s much you’ll be able to get wrong, if you know what I mean . . . And, you know, you’re with _me_. It’s not goin’ to be shit. Like, me at my worst is still sex at its best. I know that sounds fucking arrogant but it’s true. _It is!_ ’ he adds when Gary rolls his eyes at him.

Rob has uttered these things very flippantly, but there _is_ some truth to them. Gary has no idea why he’s this nervous. Or rather, he _does_ (he hasn’t had a guy inside of him for years, and he doesn’t want to mess things up by being a big mess), but he knows there’s no reason to. Rob will be there for him. He’ll guide him through it, and afterwards they’ll cuddle so hard and so passionately that they’ll make love all over and over again. Besides — it’s not like they haven’t been intimate before. They have. They’ve just never done anything that involved condoms, is all.

Gary takes a deep breath. He looks at his pale hands in his lap, covering his cock. His hands are shaking. It takes Robbie’s tattooed hands on his own to make the trembling stop.

‘You’re not goin’ to be shit,’ Robbie reminds him. He smiles when he gives Gary’s hands a reassuring squeeze and gives them a slight nudge. ‘I mean, what we’ve done _so far_ hasn’t . . .’

‘No, I know. You’re right,’ Gary says distractedly. He can’t stop staring at Robbie’s hands as they start pleasuring him with the softest, gentlest of strokes. ‘About it being good, I mean. Yeah. Wow . . .’

Gary spends a couple of minutes just _relishing_ the feeling of Robbie pumping his fist up and down. It’s good. It’s soft. It isn’t remotely like what they were supposed to be doing, but it’s nice. It’s just naughty and nice enough to make Gary forget every smattering of doubt he’s ever had.

He looks Robbie in the eye again. A dangerous combination of three words almost spills out of Gary’s mouth before he can stop them. He saves himself with a single reaffirming question instead.

‘We’re really good together, aren’t we, Rob?’

Rob’s answer comes in two ways. First, his own hand, pleasuring Gary in soft strokes up and down; then his actual answer. The one that matters.

‘We always were, Gaz. C’mere . . .’

Robbie’s words are enough to set the rest of their evening in motion. They kiss. They grind. They rub their cocks against each other so _hard_ that they’ll feel the friction until the early hours of the morning.

Every now and then, Gary catches their bodies reflected in the glass of a cabinet. They look fucking obscene, and yet they couldn’t look more romantic. They’re the perfect couple; the perfect puzzle: one man, tall, slutty and terribly naughty; the other, more nervous. Gary lets Robbie lead every single touch, and yet he couldn’t feel more in control.

The kiss is so good that Gary’s beginning to feel electrifying little tingles all over his body already, but he can’t come yet. He doesn’t want to. The best is yet to come. He gives Robbie a deep kiss that makes their tongues touch, and Robbie knows. It’s time. He removes himself from Gary’s loosening grip.

It makes Gary utter a disappointed moan.

‘I won’t be a sec,’ Rob reassures him, and he quickly retraces his steps towards his clothes on the floor as Gary gives him an unceremonious once-over.

It probably doesn’t need saying, but Robbie looks bloody good like this: naked and sweaty, with tattoos all over. His arse is probably the best thing about him, but then again you _would_ say that with Robbie Williams bent over in front of you to pick up his trousers.

Knowing where to look, Rob finds what he needs quickly. There’s a packet of condoms and a small bottle of lube still hiding in the pocket of his jogging trousers, and he gets them out within seconds.

Just seeing the items makes Gary feel sick inside. He doesn’t know what to say when Robbie demonstratively tears the packet with his teeth and catches his eye from across the room.

Rob can literally see Gary turn as white as the piano he’s still sitting on. He’s reminded of that one morning they shared in December, when Gary desperately wanted to make love in bed but suddenly changed his mind because he didn’t think the moment was right. Ever since, Rob regularly double-checks whether Gary’s truly up for things like this, even when Gary’s already said yes. He doesn’t want to push Gary into doing something he doesn’t feel comfortable with. Like Robbie himself, Gary has a tendency of changing his mind.

‘You still up for this, Gaz?’

Gary moves his head into a nervous nod. He clutches the edges of the piano as though needing something to hold on to. ‘Yeah.’

‘You _sure_ , though? You look a bit pale, if you don’t mind me sayin’.’

Gary takes a deep breath. He tries to picture a scenario where they wait a little longer and postpone this moment again, but his mind goes blank. He doesn’t want them to go there. Not again. This is it. He _wants_ this. He genuinely, _sincerely_ wants to have sex with Robbie tonight.

‘Yeah. I’m sure.’

‘One hundred percent? Cos I realise me below average cock can be a bit intimidating . . .’

Gary snorts. Something about hearing Rob mock himself makes his nerves fade almost entirely.

‘I’m just a little nervous, is all,’ Gary explains. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen a condom for years! But I do want this. Seriously. You don’t have to keep asking me. Especially when we’d already established that I probably wasn’t going to be completely terrible at having sex with you five minutes ago.’

‘I know that, but I really like askin’.’

‘Really? Why?’

Rob shrugs. ‘Dunno. I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. And to be honest, Gaz, you’re fucking sexy when you say you wanna fuck cos you’re usually so prudish and stuff . . . Have you ever thought about writing a song about sex? You should write a song about sex.’

Rob adds the bit about Gary being a “prude” just to tease Gaz, and it helps. Gary frowns. He starts defending himself as a fire builds up inside him. ‘I’m not _prudish_ , Rob _._ When have I ever been a prude? I’m the opposite of a prude, I am!’

‘Really, Gaz? Then why do you always go to bed with your shirt on? Or roll your eyes at me when I try grabbin’ your arse in public? That’s the _opposite_ of bein’ the opposite of a prude, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Me bedroom’s cold! I _need_ to put a shirt on, or I’ll freeze! And you’re _constantly_ grabbin’ me bum, you are — which is fine when you do it indoors, but I don’t want the press to find out about us!’

‘ _Really_? So you’re not just bein’ really uptight and stuff?’

‘I’m not.’ Gary puffs out his chest. He crosses his arms. ‘Like I said, Rob. I’m not a prude. I know I’m a fucking nervous wreck at the moment, but I’m not _that_. . .’

Rob grins. He gets turned on by Gary trying to prove himself, which is exactly why Robbie’s teasing him in the first place. Of course he knows Gary has a naughty side — he just gets a kick out of Gary trying to prove it to him, is all.

‘If you’re so sure you’re not a prude, then why don’t you just show me, Gaz?’

Gary swallows. He doesn’t know how, but something about Robbie being such an insufferable tease makes him less nervous. He feels himself reconnect with the confidence he found earlier, when he led Rob to the piano and they kissed so passionately that it made him hard.

Slowly but surely, Gary can feel the nerves fade. He can feel his mind’s eye being flooded with prospective images of showing Robbie just how naughty and slutty he can be. He _wants_ to be, and he has ever since he entered their hotel half an hour ago. It just took him a while to get there, is all — twenty years, in fact.

Then again — their entire relationship is built around wanting and not getting anything in return. They’re the masters of teasing. This is what they’re good at.

Gary sits straighter. By now, the piano no longer feels like ice to his skin, which is just as well because he’s about to be shagged on it. ‘How about you put on that condom of yours first, Rob?’

The rest happens in slow motion. Rob puts on the condom so slowly that it makes Gary’s own cock twitch. The way Robbie lubricates himself is obscene.

Seconds or a century later, Rob returns to the piano and repositions himself between Gary’s legs. He places his hands on Gary’s thighs, where blue bruises have blossomed and red scratches mark the places where they last pleasured each other. His hands move lower. Rob spits on them. His wet fingers prepare Gary’s body for what’s to come in slow, gentle motions in and out, and he very nearly messes up the words he wants to say out loud but never has.

‘Have I ever told you how much I love you, Gaz? I love you so fucking much. Seriously.’

It’s a first. Gary’s too hyperaware of Rob’s fingers leaving his body to process the words.

But he does, eventually. The words hit him one syllable at a time. He finds himself saying it back a hundred times over, and Rob slips his prick inside _so slowly_ that the world stops spinning.

It’s the most wonderful feeling. The pressure’s just right. It doesn’t hurt. With each slow, languid stroke in and out, Robbie kisses Gary’s forehead and reminds him just how loved he is.

Robbie speeds up once Gary’s body has become used to his prick. Within seconds, the pressure becomes too much. A long, stretched out climax starts to build inside Gary’s tummy. He can’t think anymore. He can’t speak anymore. He needs to _hold_ Rob; to pull him closer every time he feels like he’s about to fall off the edge of the piano.

Gary wraps his legs and arms around Robbie’s body tighter, pulling him in deeper. Closer. It’s starting to hurt, but it doesn’t matter. It’s nice like this. Pain alternates between pleasure and bliss every time Robbie rolls his hips.

Gary tells him how good he is. He nearly forgets how to talk, but Robbie’s listening. He watches every move Gary makes. He listens to every single word that wet pink mouth utters, from the good to the deliciously vulgar as he speeds up his strokes:

‘This is so fucking good, Rob. So good . . . Oh my God — yeah, that’s it, lad — oh Christ . . . that’s it right there . . . Fuck me deeper — _there_ you go . . . Christ, Rob, you’re gorgeous . . . so fucking gorgeous . . .’

Robbie’s never heard Gary talk like that. It’s new. It’s amazing. It takes Robbie by surprise, and yet it doesn’t surprise him at all; for every day and every hour, Rob still discovers new things about Gaz. Every day, Robbie still manages to bring out the best and worst in him — including delicious, dizzying sex on top of a piano.

But they’re not done discovering yet. Gary wants more from Robbie, still.

Gary tells him. It takes every inch of bravery he has inside him.

‘Bend me over.’

Robbie gives Gary a quizzical look. He thinks he’s misheard. ‘Say what, mate?’

‘Take me from behind. Please. Don’t make me ask you again . . .’

It’s not a request. It’s an order that Gary manages to utter with an unexpected amount of confidence. He sounds more assured this time. Still fucking nervous, but less scared. In the process of being fucked so wonderfully, all his fear left him. This is Gary Barlow, wanting to be taken as thoroughly as he dares asks for.

The words take Robbie’s breath away. They erase every single hint that Gary was ever nervous to be loved like this. He _wants_ this. He wants it all. The romance. The candlelight. The sex. The sensation of not being able to get out of bed in the morning because of how hard he was taken. Gary wants it all, with _him_ , and it turns Rob on so much that he doesn’t immediately do what Gary’s asked for.

Instead, he kisses Gary’s neck in time with his strokes inside, completely forgetting to be fast or rough. He forgets that Gary asked to be bent over the piano.

‘Jesus, Gaz, I fucking love you like this. So naughty . . .’

Gary’s too nervous to smile at the compliment. He meets Robbie’s lips and kisses him almost too softly for what the rest of his body is going through. As his trembling lips touch Rob’s, he feels Robbie slip in and out of him as slowly as if tonight lasts a century, not an hour.

It almost makes him forget his train of thought too. He feels dizzy. His hands shake as he rubs Rob’s back up and down. He has to take deep breaths in the nook of Robbie’s neck to slow down his heartbeat.

Then he finds his courage again. He doesn’t know where, exactly; he just knows it’s been inside of him from the moment he met Rob.

‘Rob. I love you, mate, but were you not listenin’ to me earlier or what?’

They speak no more. Gary doesn’t need to tell Robbie again, and Robbie doesn’t need to ask. They’re doing this.

It happens quickly. Robbie flips Gary over before he can even blink. Gary suddenly finds himself bent over the piano, arse sticking out, Robbie pressed against his back. It’s cold, but it’s nothing compared to the warm feeling of Robbie kissing every naked single inch of his body before pushing his prick inside again.

It’s rough this time. Rob doesn’t announce it. He pushes in and out, hard. His hands pull Gary’s strong arms behind his back, preventing Gary from ever touching himself.

Gary doesn’t mind. He likes it like this. He likes the pain; the cold material of the piano against his skin; the sensation of his prick, brushing against the surface every time Robbie moves. He quietly cherishes the feeling of Robbie’s cock hitting his prostrate; the thought of not being able to come unless Robbie allows it.

After only three minutes, Gary’s arms are beginning to hurt. His legs ache. He feels Robbie trembling against him. The piano that he feels against his skin offers no comfort at all. It offers only a tantalising friction every time he rubs up against it, making Gary move closer and closer to his climax.

Robbie’s close too. He’s struggling to keep up the pace. His hands no longer clutch Gary’s arms, but the edge of the piano, holding on to it for dear life in case he falls when he comes. His body trembles against Gary’s back.

‘Fuck, Gaz, I’m so close — so fucking close . . .’

Gary bends deeper down and pushes back his arse in response. He takes over control. He starts doing most of the work, grinding and wriggling his arse as he lets Robbie sink inside of him deeper and deeper.

It’s too much to bear. It’s becoming harder for Robbie to stay upright. His legs tremble. He feels dizzy at the sight of Gary’s back; his neck; his own cock disappearing into Gary’s hole. He can’t keep up anymore. He wants to keep going, but can’t.

‘Jesus, Gaz — I’m —’

‘ _Yes_ , Rob . . . come for me, Rob . . .’

‘Oh my God, I’m —’ Robbie moans. It sounds obscene. ‘Oh, _Gaz_. . .’

The sight of Gary arching his back is what does it. Robbie comes. He can slip out of Gary and roll off the condom just in time.

Rob releases himself in short spurts on Gary’s back. Gary follows suit on the piano seconds later, hands-free. It’s dizzying. Gary can’t remember where he is. Feeling Robbie release himself on the small of his back has blurred everything. The raw nature of his own orgasm makes him feel giddy but lost. He can’t remember what day it is.

Then the world comes back to him. He feels two familiar arms snake around his waist and hug him from behind, and Gary’s right where he left, in the living area of a hotel room he’s never even been in.

In other words, he’s right where he needs to be.

Robbie pulls Gary closer and kisses his neck. He doesn’t speak; they just stand there, listening to their heartbeats. The sounds of the city. The laughter of people walking past their suite. The crackle of the fireplace behind them. The sound of the sea in Gary’s right ear, buzzing because all the blood has gone to his head.

It’s Rob who speaks first.

‘That was amazing, Gaz.’ He kisses the back of Gary’s head. Then his ear. His neck. ‘ _So_ good.’

Gary hums and leans into Robbie’s embrace. It’s nice, this. He loves being hugged from behind. ‘See? Told you I wasn’t a prude.’

‘You know I only say those things to get you horny, Gaz.’

‘I know,’ Gary laughs. ‘I don’t mind. I like it. I love it when you tease me.’

‘Do you . . . love it as much as me gettin’ the room to look this good?’ Rob asks a little uncertainly. He’s still not sure that decorating their hotel room was the right call even though they’ve just had sex there.

‘ _Almost,_ ’ Gary reassures him. ‘Mind you, I don’t think the hotel staff had _this_ in mind when you told them to cover the entire room with petals . . . I feel bad for whoever has to clean this up in the morning.’

They look at the area surrounding the piano. Other than the white Yamaha having some very suspicious stains on it, the vase that was previously on the piano has toppled over and broken in two on the carpet. A puddle of water has formed where the vase landed, and some of the rose petals that were supposed to look pretty on the floor have been pushed into the carpet by Robbie’s feet. It will probably take some time to get rid of.

While Rob can see that they’ve obviously made a mess, it doesn’t particularly bother him. Compared to what he used to do to his hotel rooms in the nineties, the carpet looks almost pristine. ‘To be fair, I’ve put hotel maids through a lot worse, if you know what I mean. Which doesn’t mean I won’t say a quick prayer for the person who’s going to have to vacuum rose petals out of the carpet tomorrow, but it’s not _that_ bad. And anyway, _I_ can’t help it that you suddenly decided to have sex _on the piano_ instead of goin’ to the bedroom, Gaz! I didn’t even know this room had one in it before you pointed it out to me.’

Gary laughs. He closes his eyes when he feels the softest hint of Robbie’s mouth on the back of his head. ‘I’m sure the bedroom’s gorgeous, but you know I’ll never pass the opportunity to have some fun with a piano . . .’

‘I suppose we could check out the bedroom _now_?’ Robbie offers a little slyly.

Gary hums. He turns around in Robbie’s arms and faces him. He’s positively glowing with ‘just had sex’-ness; the sort of happy glow that makes every single gesture and expression look even more vibrantly beautiful than they already were.

‘And have a look at the rose petals there, you mean?’

‘God, yeah,’ Robbie says a little too enthusiastically. ‘I mean, if you _want_. We could cuddle too. Or watch TV! Or do other . . . stuff.’

Gary grins. Still buzzing from the wonders Robbie put his body through, he doesn’t have difficulty imagining what they might be doing next, and where. ‘D’you know what, Rob, there _are_ a few things I’d still like us to try out . . .’

Gary moves his lips to Robbie’s ear. He whispers what he’d like them to do in beautiful, exquisite detail, and it’s so deliciously obscene that they spend the rest of their evening in bed.

***

It’s dark outside. The rose petals that were previously on the bed have ended up on the floor. Most of the candles have gone out. A bright pink toy is hidden underneath a pillow. On a bedside cabinet, an open notebook shows two pages of illegible lyrics about sex that Robbie couldn’t finish because Gary kept wanting to go for seconds and thirds. In the bed itself, there are Robbie and Gary, cuddling. By now, they’ve lost count of how many times they’ve had sex.

‘I think this is probably the most sex I’ve had since 1995,’ Gary tells Robbie as much. He rests his head on Robbie’s chest and pulls him closer. ‘Is this what it feels like to be you? No wonder you’re always bloody grinning.’

‘Don’t know. Maybe?’ Robbie has to suppress a giggle when he feels Gary’s mouth on the tattoo on his chest. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever ridden a guy as long as you, though, Gaz. Jesus. Where do you get the fucking stamina from? I’m timin’ it next time.’

Gary laughs. He places another soft kiss on Robbie’s tattoo and relishes the soft sigh it elicits from his lover’s lips. ‘See? I told you all that jogging would come in handy one day. I’m not just doing it so I won’t be out of breath after doing the _Pray_ dance routine, you know! I do it for us too . . .’

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Gaz. I’m flattered.’

‘You should be.’ Gary lifts his head, and Robbie perfectly fills the gap for a short, chaste kiss that nearly sends Gary’s world spinning all over again.

They spend the next five minutes privately recalling the events of that evening: Gary making Rob wait for him in the living room; seeing Gary step out of the bathroom in just a towel; getting undressed together; Gary leading Robbie to the piano and fucking him there; and finally, when they went to the bedroom two hours ago and Gary rode Robbie so long that they both came twice.

Whilst Robbie’s still thinking about Gary riding him, Gary’s memories lead him further back. He thinks of arriving in New York and writing more songs with the lads, and Robbie suddenly asking Gary if he’d ever go solo again. Gary hasn’t had the time to think about that question again until now.

‘Rob . . . were you being serious when you said I could go solo again earlier?’

It isn’t a particularly romantic subject to bring up just after they’ve made love for the third time in a row, but Robbie doesn’t seem to mind. After all, Robbie Williams is the master of jumping from one subject to the next.

‘Definitely, yeah,’ Robbie nods after a moment’s thought. ‘I mean, I’m obviously not suggestin’ that you should leave the band cos that would make a lot of people very unhappy and stuff, but another album would be pretty ace. Yeah. Especially cos you could sort of “redeem” yourself in the process. Like, “look at me, I’m fucking amazing now! I’ve sold more records than you!” That sort of thing. I bet the press would fucking love it, too. I know they used to be awful to you in the nineties, but I think that they’d be a lot more supportive this time round. Sympathetic. Yeah.’ 

Gary doesn’t reply at first. He just runs a finger up and down Robbie’s chest, lost in thought. ‘I do _like_ the idea, but I imagine a lot of people would have a lot of questions if I suddenly released something on me own.’

‘True. You should probably ease them into it.’

‘Maybe I could release a song with _you_ first.’

‘What, like, a duet?’

Gary makes a face as though he hadn’t even considered this. ‘ _Yes_! A duet.’

‘So, a duet on the new Take That album? Or, like, Robbie Williams ft. Gary Barlow?’

‘No. Yes! A one-off.’ Gary straightens. Excited at the prospect, he quickly snatches Robbie’s notebook from the bedside table to jot down the idea before it leaves his brain. ‘It’d have to be Gary Barlow ft. Robbie Williams, that, though, obviously.’

‘. . . Why?’

‘Because that’s what it would look like in alphabetical order,’ Gary points out, like it’s the most logical thing in the world.

‘But _I’ve_ sold more records,’ Robbie argues. ‘More people know _me_! I’d have to go first. And, you know, I’m the top in the relationship, so . . .’

Gary snorts. ‘You better take that back before you end up sleeping on the sofa tonight.’

‘D’you want your virginity back with that as well, Gaz?’

Robbie’s comeback almost leaves Gary speechless. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I asked you if you wanted your virginity back cos it sure felt like I was shaggin’ a virgin earlier . . . “Ooh, Robbie, I’m so _nervous_ , I’ve never done this before . . . Please be _gentle_ , Rob . . .”’

It’s just a jibe, but it works. Gary slaps Robbie with his own notebook, and it kick-starts a pillow fight that sends petals fluttering through the air like ticker tape at a concert. They smack each other. They block each other’s attacks with their blankets and sheets. They laugh hysterically as they accidentally send toys flying towards the other side of the room.

Unfortunately, the pillow fight ends as quickly as it started: Robbie successfully smacks Gary in the face with his own pillow, and the thing explodes into a snowstorm of feathers. It renders the pillow absolutely useless. By the time the air has cleared of dust and feathers, there are more feathers on the floor than there were petals.

Robbie snorts when he sees the state their bedroom is in. It’s a fucking mess, with rose petals and feathers covering almost the entire floor. They’re both naked. Gary’s covering his cock with a half-empty pillowcase. His cheeks are flushed; his hair looks like it hasn’t been combed for days. Some of the ornaments, like the incense and the rose vases, have fallen over and landed on the carpet.

Robbie wants to make a joke about how they’ll probably never be allowed to come back to the hotel, but he swallows it when he sees Gary looking back at him with a stupid grin on his face. His heart swells. He forgets the room and the feathers and the trampled rose petals on the floor and thinks only about Gary and how close they are. Sometimes, Robbie still pinches himself over it.

‘Can you believe that six months ago we hardly talked to each other?’ Robbie asks Gary humorously, like it’s a rather funny anecdote.   

‘Christ, I know,’ Gary groans. ‘They were awful, weren’t they, those first writing sessions? It’s like we weren’t even in the same room together.’

‘I know _I_ wasn’t. I couldn’t even look you in the eye most of the time. . .’

This topic isn’t something Gary really wants to discuss naked, so he grabs a pair of pyjama trousers from the floor and puts them on. He then props up two pillows against the head of the bed and sits straight, prompting Robbie to do the same so they can have the heart-to-heart that’s been a long time coming.

‘Yeah, I felt the same way,’ Gary recalls as Robbie joins him, cross-legged, at the head of the bed and covers the lower half of his body in sheets. ‘It’s like I was afraid if that I did I’d end up fancying you again. It wasn’t just that, though – I felt bloody angry most of the time, those first few days. Like I wanted to hate you just for the sake of it. I’m glad that went away.’

Robbie remembers. The first time they went back into the studio together was far from comfortable. ‘What do you think did it, in the end? What do you think made us change?’

‘Not sure, really,’ Gary admits. ‘Mark rather annoyingly decided to make our relationship his business one day, and I guess I had no choice but to accept me feelings from then on. I think if I hadn’t I’d still be pretending to hate you even now. I don’t think I’ve ever really thanked Mark for it, now that I think about it.’

‘I don’t think he’d want to be thanked,’ Rob says. ‘He just did it cos he saw something _we_ didn’t.’

‘To be honest, Rob, I think _everyone_ saw. Everyone but us.’

‘Yeah . . .’ Then another memory comes to Rob, of Mark getting uncharacteristically angry with him because he had said something unpleasant about Gary. More specifically, Robbie had literally claimed that Gary wanted to make his life hell. ‘You remember when Mark joined us in the studio on day one and you went away to get your laptop because I hadn’t been payin’ attention to anything we’d been doing?’

Gary doesn’t. ‘Sort of . . .’

‘Anyway, you went into a different room to get your laptop, and I turned to Mark and I said something really fucking offensive about you. I won’t repeat what I said cos I don’t wanna ruin the mood and everything, but I basically told Mark that I thought you hated me. And Mark, right, he became fucking angry with me. He started givin’ me this long lecture about how great you were and how I had to give you a chance and that it took _you_ guys a few years to become mates again after the comeback . . . And I pretended not to be listenin’ at the time, but I guess something stuck cos I felt a lot better about bein’ in the same room with you later. It’s like I needed someone to remind me that ten years had passed since I left the band first time round.’

‘Mark told you all that on the first day, did he?’

‘I think so.’

Gary laughs. ‘That’s funny, cos he gave me a lecture that day too.’

‘Did he?’

‘Oh yeah. He got quite angry at me for pretending I didn’t like you, actually! He even called me out for accidentally touching your knee . . .’

Robbie snorts.

‘I know. Anyway, we had a couple of really good moments after that, didn’t we? You and me. There was that chat on the rooftop in New York. And that time you phoned me from Holland or Germany or wherever it was. I think that’s when we both realised we had something special going on. At least I did.’

Even though he can only remember half of it, Gary considers that late-night phone call one of the highlights of their getting-together. If they hadn’t had that chat, they would never have trusted each other. They would never have wasted their disastrous first kiss in Gary’s basement and spent the subsequent weeks not talking to each other. They would never have realised how similar they are.

‘I _loved_ that call,’ Robbie agrees. Him suddenly trusting Gary enough to call him for advice was perhaps one of the realest signs they were falling in love. ‘Especially when you dozed off, Gaz. That was good. You really made feel like me feelings mattered by falling asleep in the middle of me monologue.’

Gary groans. ‘I told you, I’m sorry! I promise I’ll never fall asleep during our phone calls again ever.’

‘Imagine if you _had_ stayed awake, though!’ Rob says, referring to the fact that he had confessed to Gary making him feel rather weird during their phone call. ‘We’d probably have started datin’ much sooner.’

‘I know. I guess it doesn’t matter how long it took us to get here, though,’ Gary says. ‘I’m just glad we did, in the end. Mind you, it’s been a fucking rollercoaster, hasn’t it? Bloody exhausting. I’m surprised we got through it one piece.’

‘You can say that again,’ Robbie laughs. ‘We’ve made a fucking amazing amount of progress, though. It’s amazing.’

Something makes Gary sit straighter. The pillows behind his back tumble over as he does. ‘Hang on – what did you say just now?’

‘It’s . . . amazing? _We’re_ amazing?’

‘No, the other thing.’

Robbie scrambles his brain for the words he can’t remember saying. ‘We’ve . . . made a lot of progress? I don’t know what you want me to say, Gaz!’

But Gary does. He motions at Robbie’s notebook on their bedside cabinet as though it holds the key to a riddle he wants to solve. ‘May I have a look at that?’

Robbie shrugs. He usually doesn’t like it when other artists read his notebooks (after all, lyrics books are much like journals or diaries in that they contain a scandalous amount of confessions), but this is Gary we’re talking about. He’s the protagonist of every single lyric Robbie’s ever written.

‘Be my guest.’ 

With that, Gary carefully takes Robbie’s notebook from his bedside cabinet and looks through it to find what he’s looking for. He flicks through page after page of loose lyrics and ideas just to find _it_ ; a single moment of enlightenment that he think will tie everything perfectly together.

Curious, Rob edges closer to see what Gary’s looking for. He’s going through the pages of his notebook in reverse order, starting with recent scribbles about next year’s tour to old, unused lyrics for _Eight Letters_ and _SOS._ There are also a couple of doodles that he made during several recording sessions. ‘What are you looking for, Gaz?’

‘Album titles . . . I _think_.’

‘You think?’

‘Yeah . . . Here!’

Gary reaches the page he was looking for. He carefully bends the spine of the notebook and puts the book down on the bed. Its two damaged pages display an incoherent collection of words and ideas: _Five_ , _Underground Machine_ , _Pretty Things_ , _The English_ , _Nine_. They won’t make any sense to an outsider, but they do to Rob. They’re the album titles he jotted down in November, on the night he and Gary first made love.

At first, Robbie’s not sure which title he’s meant to be looking at, but then he spots a single word in the corner of the page. It jumps out at him from afar.

‘. . . Progress?’ Robbie tries out the word on his tongue. He pronounces it again, and this time he’s smiling. The word perfectly encapsulates everything they’ve done and ever will. ‘ _Progress_! That’s it! _That’s_ the album!’

Gary returns Robbie’s smile. ‘It’s good, innit? It’d look amazing on an album cover, that. Tour too – “Progress Live”. Sounds perfect.’

‘More than perfect. Didn’t Mark come up with it? I remember us all laughin’ at the idea because it didn’t make sense.’

‘It _does_ make sense, though, doesn’t it? It summarises everything. Our progress as a band, our progress together . . .’

‘Not to mention some of the songs we’ve recorded already bein’ about mankind and stuff,’ Robbie adds, sounding dead excited.

‘And _The Flood_ already having the word “progress” in it . . .’

‘Woah!’

They look at each other like excited children. They feel like they’ve just discovered the solutions to all the world’s problems, all packed up in a single package of love and music that they’ve spent twenty years working towards. The next Take That album, the one that will challenge people’s preconceived ideas about the type of music boy bands make, is to be called _Progress_ : forward or onward movement towards a destination; development towards an improved or more advanced condition.

Progress.

Gary only barely manages to copy the word into his own notebook before Robbie turns off the bedroom lights and kisses him.

FRIDAY – MAY 2011 – SUNDERLAND – AN EPILOGUE.

It’s not his first time, but he’s still nervous. He can’t remember what to do with his hands, so he keeps them at his sides while Gary shows him the ropes. Gary’s not nervous at all, and Rob has no idea how he does it. How can Gary be so cool and collected? How can he move his body so effortlessly, knowing that this is the first time they’ll be doing this live since nineteen-fucking-ninety-five? It doesn’t make sense.

But Gary doesn’t see it like that at all. He’s dreamt of this moment for more than ten years. He’s imagined every single sound and touch in the private corners of his mind, so why should he be nervous? He’s rehearsed for this day, intimately, from the moment the band got back together. He’s ready. He _wants_ this.

Gary wants Robbie closer. He asks Rob to stand right in front of him. Rob does, nervously so, and Gary moves his own body into the pose he wants Robbie to mirror.

Robbie’s not sure. He hesitates. ‘I don’t know about this, Gaz. You sure we can’t skip this part? The audience probably won’t even notice anyway. We’re old! We don’t have to do this. It’s not even our best song anyway. _Everything Changes_ , on the other hand . . .’

The coy, flirtatious smile that Gary gives Robbie next doesn’t help; it only makes him more nervous.

‘C’mon, Rob. Just once. I promise that if you get it wrong again we’ll ask Kim to think of something else.’

‘We could do _Everything Changes_ in full?’ Rob suggests.

‘Let’s not push it.’

Robbie rolls his eyes. He mirrors the position Gary has already assumed in front of him. ‘ _Fine._ But if I get it wrong again we’re not doin’ the song again, _ever_. Not even for a laugh. This routine does me fucking head in . . .’

Gary nods at Howard and Mark, who are watching the scene from the corner of their dressing room. Howard taps a little button on his freebie Samsung smartphone, and a live recording of _Pray_ starts playing.

Robbie and Gary dance. Howard and Mark spur them on. For Gary, the dance routine comes as natural as if it were a part of his DNA; for Robbie, it’s a lot more difficult. He’s slow. He’s stiff. But Robbie does _try_ , and by the time the live recording hits the first chorus he’s managed to replicate every single move. He remembers again. By the time the song hits the second chorus, Robbie has grown confident enough to use the full length of their dressing room.

Howard decides he’s seen more than enough. He turns off the song, stopping Robbie and Gary in their tracks. They both look at him as if they’re talent show contestants waiting for the head judge to give them their critique. ‘See? That wasn’t completely shite after all, Rob. Well done.’

‘It looked much better than last week’s dress rehearsals,’ Mark agrees.

Gary squeezes Robbie’s shoulder and kisses his cheek. ‘I agree. You did great, Rob. Told you there’s no need to worry.’

‘Cheers, Gaz,’ Rob sighs, visibly relieved. He wipes the sweat from his brow before giving his bandmates an apologetic look. ‘I’m really sorry I had to make you watch that, by the way, lads. I swear when I woke up this morning I couldn’t even remember how the song _goes_ , let alone how to do the routine . . .'

Robbie explains. Last night, he was plagued with nightmares — so much so that when he woke up at four in the morning, he was drenched in sweat. He felt like the walls of his room were caving in on him. When Robbie then checked his phone and remembered with a pang that today is the opening night of _Progress Live_ , he panicked. He froze.

Then it got worse. Robbie checked his phone again, and his mind went blank. For some terrifying reason, his brain decided to delete every single piece of information related to the tour; including the choreography to _Pray_ , which Robbie’s anxiety decided to make a very big deal of. For if he couldn’t remember the choreography to _Pray_ , every single member of the band would look shit, and if everyone looked shit then they’d get very bad reviews online and fans would sell their tickets to second-hand websites and they’d all become very poor and he and Gary would have to split up. It was awful.  

Thankfully, Gary woke up when Robbie did. He held Rob tight, kissed him on the mouth and swore that everything would be all right – even those pesky dance routines that Robbie claimed he couldn’t remember. They’d privately rehearse the routines again and again in their dressing room till Robbie felt comfortable enough to do them for real that night.

(Unfortunately, “privately” turned out to be “with Howard and Mark there” because Take That have only one dressing room for some reason. Apparently, having a giant mechanical robot on tour cuts the touring budget tremendously.)

Howard, who has more experience with dancing than most, thinks he understands what Robbie went through that morning. ‘I think I know what you mean, Rob. There’s always this moment on tour when your mind just goes blank, isn’t there? Sometimes I even worry that I’m gonna forget to raise my hands to _Never Forget_! But there’s always a part of you that remembers, no matter how nervous you get. Especially with a song like _Pray_. That one’s just ingrained into our bodies, for better or worse.’

‘No, I know,’ Robbie nods. ‘I suppose I just needed that final confirmation that I wasn’t going to fuck things up after all. Cos I really, really don’t wanna fuck things up, obviously. Especially not on opening night. I know that sounds weird coming six months after we’ve started rehearsals, but that’s anxiety for you.’

Mark smiles at Rob. ‘I think we’re _all_ a little nervous about tonight, aren’t we? It comes with the job. So if you have any questions or can’t remember anything, just ask. You’re not on your own.’

‘Exactly,’ Gary agrees. ‘This is not like the nineties when we went through entire tours not even properly talking to each other.’

‘Besides, the audience will mostly be looking at _me_ tonight anyway,’ Howard says in jest, making everyone laugh out loud. Then he turns to Gaz. ‘So we’re all settled, then? No last-minute changes after all? The last tour took a lot longer to get ready, didn’t it? We wasn’t even finished with rehearsals until three days before the opening night!’

‘Other than _certain_ members of the band deciding they don’t like their shoes for the opening number, I think we’re all sorted this time,’ Gary tells Mark in particular, who turns a little red and unsuccessfully feigns a look of innocence. ‘Mind you, I’m more worried about Om not working than anything else. Rob not remembering the _Pray_ routine I can deal with, but I don’t wanna be stuck on top of a robot on opening night!’

Mark and Howard let out nervous laughs. Like Robbie dramatically deciding he couldn’t do _Pray_ after all, they’ve both been trying to deal with their pre-concert nerves in their own idiosyncratic ways. Mark has changed his outfit for the TT4 section up to four times. Howard’s stolen the chocolate éclairs that Mark received from a French fan this morning and eaten every single one of them. Jay’s been locked in a small room in the Stadium of Light all day, meditating. The others haven’t seen him for hours.

Meanwhile, Gary’s not nervous at all. He’s more worried than nervous: worried about Om the robot not working; worried about the audience not taking to the setlist; worried about Robbie falling to his death doing a swan dive. Even Rob’s anxieties about the concert’s several dance routines don’t really worry him. It’s just the things that Gary has no control over that have kept him up at night, like what the weather’s going to be like or what he’s going to eat for breakfast once the tour hits Europe.

‘It’ll be good, though, won’t it?’ Robbie asks, pulling Gary out of his nightmarish thoughts about not being able to eat a proper British breakfast. ‘I mean, this amazing tour we’re about to embark on. I won’t fuck it up. _Right_?’

‘Jesus, Rob,’ Gary laughs. ‘You know I’ve already told you the answer to that a dozen times.’

‘I know, but I really like it when you tell me I’m doin’ a good job, Gaz!’

The latter comes out strangely suggestive-sounding to Robbie’s ears, and he immediately turns to his mates to explain that he definitely wasn’t trying to chat Gary up in front of them. (Before the tour kicked off, Gary made Robbie promise that they weren’t going to do any flirting/kissing/cuddling with colleagues or members of crew around. Sadly, they have so many people working for them on this tour that there’s always someone walking into them _somewhere_.)

‘Did that sound sexual? I hope it didn’t sound sexual. I’m not tryin’ to flirt with Gary or anything. I mean, I _would_ , obviously, but not with you here cos Gaz said we shouldn’t. Sorry, Howard. Mark. No offence.’

‘No, you was bein’ pretty clear,’ Howard says.

‘Right.’

Mark clears his throat. ‘ _I_ think this tour is going to be really brilliant, by the way,’ he says to no-one in particular.

Robbie forget he had even asked the question. ‘Oh! Good. I mean, I _was_ goin’ to ask you, Mark, but I figured I ask Gary first with him bein’ me boyfriend and stuff.’

Howard attempts the naughty joke Robbie has perfectly led him to. ‘Cos Gaz always comes first, right, Rob?’

The last thing Howard hears before being elbowed in the sides by Mark is a muffled ‘Jesus’ from Gary.

***

Three hours to show time. The Pet Shop Boys have just kick-started their support set with a rousing rendition of _Heart_ that gets the crowd on their feet.

One hundred and sixty minutes to show time. In a faraway corner of the Stadium of Light, Jay enters a trance-like meditative state to get away from the crowd.

Two and a half hours to show time. Gary’s trying to talk Robbie into having an ice bath after the show. After finding out that bombarding Robbie with a list of health benefits doesn’t quite work, he blackmails Robbie into having an ice bath by promising him ‘a blowjob or two’.

One hundred and forty minutes to show time. One of the female dancers accidentally breaks the heel of her shoe, and Take That stylists Luke and Danielle have to skip dinner to get it fixed again.

Two hours to show time. Robbie googles ‘DOES HAVING SEX BEFORE A CONCERT BRING BAD LUCK??’ on his Samsung tablet. It doesn’t bring up any results.

Eighty minutes to show time. Mark finally decides which shoes he’s going to wear: simple brown ones with insoles. When he heads back to their dressing room to change, he walks into Robbie pinning Gary to the wall. Again.

An hour to show time. Jay is roused from his meditation by James, their security guard. He leaves the room feeling like he’s floating.

Fifty minutes to show time. One of the buttons from Howard’s velvet waistcoat has fallen off. Their stylists have to skip dinner yet _again_ to hot-glue the button back on.

Thirty minutes to show time. Grinning, Robbie quickly zips Gary’s trousers back up and laughs that giving a blowjob is definitely the ‘second naughtiest thing’ he’s ever done on the opening night of a tour. When Gary asks him what the first naughtiest thing is, Robbie replies, deadpan: ‘Drugs.’

Twenty-nine minutes to show time. Mark decides to give every single member of crew a handshake and a hug. This takes him so long that he almost has the show delayed by accident.

Twenty minutes to show time. Gary finds himself lying to Luke that he spilled milk on his shirt for the opening number. Sighing, Luke and his assistant skip dinner for the third time that evening to make Gary a new shirt from scratch.

Fifteen minutes to show time. Mark digs into his travel case for his chocolate éclairs and finds his case empty. The chocolate is gone. When he confronts Howard about this, Howard swallows Mark’s last chocolate éclair so quickly that he nearly causes a medical emergency.

Ten minutes to show time. The fans are getting louder. More impatient. They all eye up the props on the stage to work out what the show will be like, but every single thing their minds come up with is wrong. The setlist won’t be in chronological order. Lulu won’t be there. The boys won’t boys arrive at the stadium in a smoking DeLorean, like a tabloid had reported they would. Anything could happen.

Understage, all the band and crew have gathered for a final pep-talk and last-minute changes. It’s the calm before the storm; the final moment of sanity before all hell breaks loose.

As ever, everyone deals with the countdown in their own ways. In front of the boys’ clothing racks, Mike, Milton, Donavan, Jamie, Gary Nutall, Bernie and Lee casually discuss an offer a few of them were made by a British rock star.  

The female dancers, all dressed up in their prophetic _Alice in Wonderland_ outfits, joke and laugh amongst themselves in a corner. They don’t seem particularly nervous, but then again they never are.

A huge, man-sized caterpillar walks into a wall.

Kim Gavin, the show’s creative director, makes sure that the torches the dancers use for _Relight_ are stacked away safely.

Luke makes last-minute changes to Mark’s _Never Forget_ outfit. He still hasn’t eaten.

Finally, in front of the metal steps that lead from the stadium’s dark catacombs to the stage, there are Gary, Mark, Robbie, Howard and Jason, ready to embark on their biggest adventure yet. This is what they’ve waited two decades for: the final, redemptive proof that they’re not just a boy band with love-drowned eyes. This is it.

Seven minutes to show time. Gary looks at all his mates as they gather round him for their final group chat before the opening. ‘D’ you know what, lads, I usually have something quite clever to say on these opening nights but I can’t come up with anything now! Christ — this is special, this is.’

‘Very special,’ Mark agrees.

‘The best yet,’ Jason adds.

‘I can’t believe people have actually showed up,’ Howard thinks out loud.

‘They’ve all showed up because _I’m_ here, obviously,’ Robbie adds humbly. They all laugh.

‘Don’t get too cocky, Rob,’ Howard laughs, ‘at least ten of them people are there just to see me.’

‘So just your family then,’ Gary jibes as the countdown hits the three-minute mark in the background.

Howard responds by giving Gary the middle finger.

‘In all seriousness, though, lads, it _is_ special,’ Robbie says, and the others all nod. More dancers and members of crew show up for frantic last-minute chats and hugs, but it doesn’t seem to faze him at all. All the anxiety Robbie felt that morning has completely faded. ‘I’m usually an anxious wreck before these gigs, but I couldn’t feel better now, to be honest. Like I know I’m about to have the best night ever.’

‘And you are,’ Gary agrees. ‘Trust me, mate, this night — you’re gonna remember it forever, you are.’

‘Cos that’s what being in Take That is all about, isn’t it?’ Mark nods. ‘It’s not meant to make you feel uncomfortable or scared — it’s supposed to make you happy.’

‘Unless a stranger pinches your bum during a club tour in 1991,’ Howard frowns.

‘Or when you split your trousers and everyone can see your underpants,’ Mark adds solemnly.

‘Or when your lung collapses in the middle of a tour,’ Jay says with a nod at Howard.

‘But other than that we’re probably going to be fine,’ Mark says, and they all laugh — even Robbie, who has every right to be nervous but isn’t. He feels blissfully at ease by just being here, and everyone knows it. He doesn’t need to say out loud how happy he feels. Having been in the same room with this wonderful bandmates for nearly two years, they’ve formed a special connection that makes words unnecessary. They _know_ when Mark is worrying about something by just looking at him. They _know_ when Jay wants solitude. They know when Gary’s about to talk Star Wars. They just _do_.

So all it takes is Rob glancing at Gary and Mark, and they embrace like brothers — or, perhaps, like five men who were miraculously put together because fate decided they should.

It’s Kim’s unfortunate task to split the boys up. He taps the boys on the shoulder, hands them their in-ears and mikes, and they’re forced to let go.

‘Two minutes till _Rule The World_ , Sirs.’

The latter is directed at Gary, Mark, Howard, and Jason, not Robbie. Robbie’s meant to stay behind so that Take That can perform five songs without him. Later, Robbie will emerge from one of the screens on stage and give everyone a heart attack by – literally – jumping into an earth-shattering rendition of _Let Me Entertain You_. It’s an odd setlist, but it seems to work.

Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking down. Gary, Mark, Howard and Jason remind Robbie to enjoy every minute of his set and to be careful when he does his swan dive, and they obediently move towards the small metal staircase that takes them up to the stage. It makes Robbie feel like he’s watching his best mates go to a party he wasn’t invited to. Thankfully, Gary decides to stick around a little longer. He gives Robbie a reassuring smile as the countdown in the background finally reaches the one-minute mark.

‘You okay, Rob? You’re not dreading the ice bath already, are you?’

Robbie doesn’t respond. His eyes flick at his fellow bandmates in front of the stairs. He lowers his voice even though there’s such a _racket_ that no-one can hear him anyway. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to join for the TT4 songs, Gaz? I promise I’ll get the lyrics right! Just take me with you. _Please_.’

‘And ruin the surprise? No way, Rob,’ Gary laughs. He has a look at the in-ears in his hands, then checks the mike that he was given. ‘Besides — you don’t think I know how much you like watching me from down here? You made it very obvious when we were doing our dress rehearsals last week . . .’

Rob chuckles. He bites his lip. ‘Maybe I just really like you in this outfit, Gaz . . .’

‘You should.’

Something unspoken pulls them closer together. Robbie’s eyes flutter closed when Gary suddenly stands on his tiptoes to kiss him, and everything changes. He’s transported to a world where it’s just him and Gaz. He forgets the crowd. He forgets he dancers and the crew and the storm of activity all around him. He forgets what city he’s in.

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if Robbie messes up _Pray_ or if he forgets the words to _SOS._ It doesn’t matter that he’s not there for the opening number. What does matter, is every single moment he’s about to spend with his mates. They may not be together for the next fifty minutes or an hour, but that’s all right. They’ll manage. After all, it means Robbie gets to watch his favourite band every night for the next three months, and who doesn’t want that?  

Forty seconds to show time. The crowd have started counting down the seconds: thirty-nine; thirty-eight; thirty-seven.

They break up their kiss. Robbie gives the metal staircase another glance, where Mark, Howard, and Jason have already gathered with their in-ears and microphones, about to sprint up the stairs when the countdown ends. They all smile back at him as if to give him a final reassurance that everything is going to be all right.

And it will be. 

Knowing that he’ll soon become a part of that wonderfully kind, beautiful group of men fills Robbie with joy. He can’t wait to get through his own set and join the lads for _The Flood_. He can’t wait to perform _Pray_ with them, as much as he dreads the dance routine. But most of all, he can’t wait to see Gary again. He can’t wait to touch Gary’s hand right before they head to the banisters at the top of the stage, where they’ll be thirty feet from the ground, floating.

Twenty seconds to show time. Robbie gives Gary’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Guess I’ll see you on the other side, then?’

‘Always. And no running on stage in the middle of _Shine_! You just stay put and watch me from down here, all right?’

‘With pleasure, Captain,’ Robbie grins. ‘I just hope it doesn’t turn me on this time . . .’

‘That’s a shame, cos I was hoping it would . . .’

Their mouths touch for a soft kiss that one of the assistant producers ends up having to break up. Their hands let go. Gary whispers something naughty into Robbie’s ear, then heads to the metal staircase to join Mark, Howard and Jason for the first act of the show.

Suddenly, Rob’s on his own. He’s about five feet away from his bandmates now. It makes him feel awkward. Not anxious, but _strange_. For a frantic moment, he scrambles his brain for something to lighten the mood with, like an inspirational quote or a joke or both. In the nineties, he’d usually have the final word with a silly jibe about whatever city they were in.

Then he finds it. The words leave his mouth as naturally as the solo songs he’s about to sing on his own.

‘Lads?’

The boys turn towards him. ‘Yeah, mate?’

‘I just wanted you to know that I really fucking love all of you,’ Robbie blurts out when the members of the audience start counting down in single figures: 9, 8, 7 . . . ‘Also, break a leg. But not literally because that would make certain activities very awkward. Especially you, Gaz. Please don’t injure something important.’

Gary snorts. Five seconds. ‘Cheers, mate.’

Mark: ‘Thanks, Rob. Have fun out there.’

‘And don’t forget to breathe,’ Jason adds.

‘Agreed,’ Gary nods. He swallows. His mouth blurts out what he’s been meaning to say all day. ‘And for the record —’

The countdown stops. A loud _ding_ marks the start of the concert. Mark, Howard and Jason instantly snap into performance mode. Perfectly on cue, they all print up the stairs to an overwhelmingly rapturous applause that drowns out Gary’s words and sends them flying into the atmosphere.

Gary tries again. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t pay attention to James or Kim or the dancers shouting at him to get a move on — Gary’s not leaving until he’s told Robbie what he needs to hear.

‘I love you too, Rob,’ Gary blurts out. ‘So much.’

Robbie flushes. He grins. ‘Enough to make me skip the ice bath later, Gaz?’

Gary pops in his in-ears. He laughs. ‘No.’

‘Will we be havin’ the ice bath . . . _together_ , then?’

Gary doesn’t say. He just sprints up the stairs and _smiles_ , knowing that after the crowd have long gone home and picked up the ticker tape from the floor, his heart will still be pulsating with the warmth Robbie has cloaked him in. After the tour has ended and their lives as performers come to a brief halt, there will still be this: this wonderfully sincere display of love that makes even the best stunts, robots and swan dives fade in comparison.

Because that’s what Take That is, in the end; when you strip away the production and the fireworks, you’ll find at its core the best love story there is.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this story in May '17, so this update has been a long time coming. I hope you enjoyed reading it!


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